


shattered souls won’t mend themselves

by baby_danvers, Infinity_In_His_Eyes



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: F/F, Foster Care, Gay, Gaybies, Kara Danvers - Freeform, Lena Luthor - Freeform, Lena Luthor Needs a Hug, Minor Sanvers, Road Trips, SuperCorp, supergirlau
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-09-24 09:39:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9715757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baby_danvers/pseuds/baby_danvers, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinity_In_His_Eyes/pseuds/Infinity_In_His_Eyes
Summary: What causes a shattered soul?For Lena, it was a mother's contempt, a father's indifference, a brother's betrayal, and eight years in the cut-throat world of a foster home.For Kara, it was 15 years of happiness, dashed to pieces by a ghastly tragedy.Can two broken souls find solace in each other?





	1. war against

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is our first collab work, hope you guys like it! We're both complete SuperCorp fanatics, so this is gonna be big!

//Lena POV//

 

We all have our war stories to tell. Mine starts with my mother.

 

She never wanted me. It was only because of Lex that I was ever adopted. He begged my mom for a sibling. I think it was because he was lonely. Scratch that, I  _ know _ it was because he was lonely. He told me when I was older and I snuck into his room so we could stay up late, huddled under the covers of his king-sized bed with flashlights. Oh, the things we confided in one another under those pristine sheets. But those don’t make for a war story, not yet, not those confessions.

 

Since Lex was the one who insisted his parents adopt me (I was four at the time), my mom and dad didn’t care for me that much. My dad was okay; he didn’t care a lot, but at least he acknowledged my existence. My mother despised me. I’m sure she still does. She would have had me rot on the floor in the attic without a bed or food or clothes if she had her way. But Lex always was looking out for me. He begged our mother to give me one of the ten or so guest rooms (more specifically, the one next to his. Mother was happy to oblige, since she lived on the opposite side of the mansion.), pleaded that she pay for me to go to the same private school as he did. Lex was basically my guardian. A heavy burden for a nine year old.

 

Which is why I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when he started taking drugs his freshman year of high school. Of course, by then I was only eight, so I didn’t understand the cause of his sudden withdrawal from the outside world. But I’m old enough now to know it was because of me. He never said it was, but it was obvious in the way he wouldn’t let me in his room, how he wouldn’t look me in the eyes on our drives home from school. He had found an outlet, a haven where he was safe from my burden. And whenever he tried to step out of the haven, he was hit face-first with the responsibilities that our mother and father never shouldered. So he would slip back in, taking more drugs, therefore becoming more and more depressed, and therefore taking more and more drugs. He was stuck.

 

I understand that addiction is hard, and that drugs can make you do terrible things. But when Lex came home one night with blood on his hands and clothes, I ran from him screaming. He just hung his head. I watched from the top of the stairs as the police came and took him away, our mother fighting tooth and nail, screaming at them to let her baby son go. Our father just stood there, watching the scene like me, but with a bored and inconvenienced look on his face. Once the police were gone, our mother turned to me, her face red. 

 

“You did this!” she screamed, and started storming up the stairs. “You worthless piece of shit, you turned him into this! I was right, we never should have even looked at you!” I ran to Lex’s room and locked myself in, burrowing in under the covers and crying silently into his pillow.

 

I wasn’t allowed at the hearing, but I didn’t need to be there. It’s what happened after that actually mattered to me. My mother (with my father paying the expenses) hired a mercenary to kill the witnesses to Lex’s murder. When he failed, my parents (if I could call them that anymore) were tried and sent to prison for a life sentence. Lex was placed in juvenile detention until he would join his parents in some far-off maximum security prison.

 

So that’s how I ended up in a foster home just a week and a half before my ninth birthday. It’s a run down house in the middle of Detroit with leaky windows, mildew-covered walls, and lumpy, creaky beds. Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately, I still haven’t decided), it’s only about an hour’s train ride to Metropolis. But I’ve never gone back, not once in the seven years I’ve been living in this hell-hole. But is it really living if there’s nothing and no one to live for?


	2. night terrors

//Kara POV//

 

I always had a good life.

 

For as long as I could remember, my family was there for me.  And it didn’t matter what anyone said to me, they were my real family.  It didn’t matter to me a single bit that I was adopted at the age of four.  It mattered to me what happened after that.  Eliza and Jeremiah, my mom and dad, made sure of that.  They promised me a better life, that I wouldn’t feel the pain that I felt prior to becoming a part of the Danvers’ family.  Truthfully, I never remembered the so called “pain” before. Mom and dad were honest with me.  They told me the stories.  The events that led to my adoption.  I didn’t care.  Not only did I not remember, I didn’t want to remember.

 

The memories I wanted, the memories I made, were the ones crafted by all the moments that I had spent with the Danvers.   _ My _ family.  I was four and even though my parents told me I had had it rough, I didn’t let it phase me, because I had never felt anything but acceptance.  It was wonderful.  I belonged.

 

One of my favorite memories is one of my sister, Alex. She was 2 years older than me. She never treated me like I was different. She never looked at me with pity, only understanding and love. It always struck me with wonder and curiosity alike. She was one of bravest people that I had known, but also one of the most worrisome.  The duality of some aspects. Alex worried that she wasn’t enough.  She worried that she was a disappointment.  I remember the night that she walked through the door, observing our parents and I warily, and we didn’t know why until we noticed that she had brought someone along with her.  A girl.

 

“Mom, dad, Kara.  This is Maggie.”

 

She didn’t have to say anything.  We knew.  And we understood.  We accepted.  I couldn’t figure out why Alex would think that we would have done anything differently.  I still don’t know why she was so scared, why she thought we wouldn’t look at her the same.  What I do remember, though, is the look of pure joy on her face when she realized that she was still the same Alex to us.  A full smile.  Her lips on Maggie’s lips.  

 

It was my favorite memory.  I’m not sure why, but all I know is that I hold it closest to my heart.  My memories are the only things that I had before that are with me in this new chapter in my life.

 

A chapter that I have yet to come to terms to.

 

I have nightmares.  I’m 15 years old, and I wake up in this unfamiliar bed, in this unfamiliar room, shivering in a cold sweat, despite the fact that roaring flames light up my night terrors.  It was so unexpected.  It was terrifying.  I don’t want to remember it, and I have resorted to not sleeping much at all in order to escape the tragedy that plays on an infinite loop in my sleep.

 

In my nightmares, I’m getting off of my bus.  Alex is usually with me, but today, she’s home sick with a nasty cough.  My mom was home tending to Alex, and my dad had the day off.  I thank the bus driver and step onto the gravel.  I was hungry, my stomach growling.  I knew we had leftover pot stickers in the fridge.  I was tempted to run, but my backpack was heavy, and I decided that it wasn’t really worth it.

 

I wish I had run.  Maybe something would have been different.  Maybe I would be with my family then.

 

In my nightmares, I take no more than two steps before I see the first flame go up.  The first flame is all the time my eyes have to register before the next flame goes, and the one after that, until my house isn’t just flames anymore.  No, it’s a fiery explosion and smoke and shattered glass and splintered wood and it’s flying in my direction and all I can do is fall to the ground and cover my head, but it’s probably more than what the rest of my family could do for themselves.  In my nightmares, nothing remains of my house.  In my nightmares, nothing remains of my family.

 

But my nightmares are my reality.

 

I don’t sleep anymore, because I don’t want to face reality.  It’s almost like a life sentence (and this home is my jail).  I’m awake, and I can’t escape what happened.  I’m asleep, and I still can’t escape what happened.

 

There’s nobody in this place.  Nothing is home anymore.  I’m not in National City anymore.  I’m in Detroit, in a rundown foster care home, with nothing and no one to call mine.

 

I’ve never felt more alone.


	3. convergence

//Kara POV//

 

I spent the first week in a routine. The first night I arrived, is the first night I established the rules for myself.   _ Rule number one _ : don’t sleep, it makes things harder. I spent the nights with a pad of paper and a pencil, the only luxury I allowed myself in this place. I spent the nights trying to get lost in my thoughts, but my brain always circled back to the same thing.  Their voices. Their laughs. And I couldn’t even hold on to those for very long. When it happened, I couldn’t hear them. But when I reimagine it, the screams are as clear as if I were in the house with them.

 

_ Rule number two _ : don’t ever forget. It’s only been a week, I know. But I feel like one day, as the minutes tick on, my memories will fly away. I won’t ever forget. I have one thing, one thing to hold on to. When it happened, nothing was salvageable. But I did have my backpack. I was always sentimental, carrying things that nobody else would give second thought to. I had a wallet. But not once did I ever carry money in this particular wallet (I had always carried money in my back pocket, poor decision making on my behalf at the time.) Now, I’m forever thankful to myself, because in this wallet, I possessed pictures. Pictures among pictures. A photo album, pocket sized, and for my eyes only. Nobody else really needed to know.

_ Rule number three _ : blend in with the system. 

  
  


I ate the cardboard like meals that the home provided for us three times a day. I did my fair share of chores that the home required us to do. I played nice with the social workers and the caretakers, I acted like I was fine. Truthfully, I tried hard to pretend like I wasn’t tired, like I wasn’t scared to death of what was going to come after this (or what had happened prior to this). I felt selfish for feeling as sad as I did, because I knew that every single kid in this home had their own story. I felt selfish for thinking my story was the worst.

 

Blending in with the system meant that I stayed away from the social aspect of the home. None of the others really seemed to interest me anyways.  I spent my days in my room, the walls devoid of any decoration, the atmosphere lacking anything that would have made it homely, fruitlessly sketching on my paper.  My sketches were of the other kids. Ok, I lied slightly when I had said they held no interest to me.  _ They _ didn’t, but their past selves did. I liked to pick faces out of the crowd, usually ones that held no expression, and I  _ created  _ expression for them.  I imagined their lives before here.  I drew them an imaginary family.  I made them become themselves again.

 

It was 2:37 p.m., and the girl I had my eyes on was expressionless (that is what I searched for, after all. Maybe that’s why my eyes were involuntarily drawn to her.) Maybe I’ve overused the word, or maybe I’ve used it in the wrong context before, because I have never seen someone look so without emotion in my life. I continue to stare, but only because her eyes haven’t met my eyes yet (I don’t think anyways.) I give her a once over. Then a twice over, because I didn’t understand. It’s like she didn’t acknowledge existence itself. I swear I felt some kind of aura radiating from her...pure, cold, strength. And then I know. She’s my next story. The next person to make my own, to give meaning to in my book.  Something about her...was simply gravitating.

 

And maybe it was her bright green eyes. Which I only realized were a thing because I had started taking steps towards her. Small, tentative steps (I hope I didn’t look as broken,  _ as pitiful _ , as I felt) and before I realized what my own feet were doing, her head snapped up and piercing, emerald eyes met my own sad blue eyes. I felt my eyes betray me (again), searching her face against my will.

 

And, shit, did she look pissed.

 

//Lena POV//

 

Another girl got adopted yesterday. Her name was Lucy. She was twelve. She had been in the home with us for about two years, one of the longest stays (other than mine, of course) in this damn foster home. I try really hard to be happy for her, because that’s what our mentor says we should feel. But I can’t, I only feel anger. Next to no one wants a girl older than thirteen. Absolutely no one wants a Luthor. I’m sixteen and I happen to be a Luthor, if only by name. So I’ve long since moved past the point of being jealous simply because I’ve long since moved past the point of having hope. 

 

_ Hope _ . Dammit.

 

When I was eleven, a girl around my age was brought to the home. Her name was Hope. Her twin brother had just been murdered in front of her – by their drunken father. She didn’t speak to anyone. She would barely even come out of her room. But when she did, she would shy away from everyone. Except me. I had distanced myself from all the other girls in the home the whole time I had been at the foster home, but I still interacted with them. But when I saw Hope and I saw a version of myself. So I approached her one day about a month after she came to the home and talked quietly to her, telling her it wasn’t so bad here. I was lying when I said it to her, but when she smiled and whispered, “Thank you, Lena,” I believed myself. 

 

We became best friends. We snuck into each other’s rooms (it reminded me of the good memories I had of Lex), sat together at the dinner table, and actually participated in group, always together. Hope had me believing in a bright future for six entire months.

 

But then the Palmers came along. They were the (a?)typical, benevolent millionaire type, always donating to good causes and showing up at humble charity events. They were interested in accepting Hope into their family. And they were perfectly good people. It would have been so much easier for me if I could despise them. But I couldn’t.

 

Hope fought tooth and nail for them to adopt me along with her. I was outside the room while she was begging for them to at least consider it. But they said they were only looking for one girl, and they wanted Hope. I understood their reasoning, even as my world crumbled around me. I heard Hope ask them if it was because I was a Luthor. They said no. I only half believed them. The worst thing is, again, that I  _ understood _ why they wanted Hope and not me. Hope was so charming and sweet, despite all she had been through. And she could love. I was raised by a boy-turned-psycho who was only five years older than me and the foster system. I didn’t have the luxury of loving. 

 

I told Hope this and she broke down in tears, hugging me and promising she would find a good family and convince them to come adopt me, and that she would write to me, and that she would never forget me. I told her it was okay, she didn’t need to do that. She only cried harder and thanked me for saving her, for pulling her out of her depression. I just rubbed circles in her back, saying, “You’re welcome,” with silent tears rolling down my face.

 

Hope left the day after that. That’s when I started building up walls around my heart. I didn’t want that to happen to me again.  _ The first law of war, _ I told myself.

 

I’ve had years of practice at this, and yet I still don’t really know how to feel when a blonde shows up in the common room at the foster home, as broken-looking as Hope once did. I think I should feel sympathy. Probably empathy, but no one here’s worthy of that knowledge.  _ First law of war: build a barrier to keep others out. _ If you look strong and act strong, you will become strong, and I started building the second I stopped receiving letters from Hope (five years and three months ago). So I feel nothing. That is, until she starts walking towards me. 

 

I can't really identify it. The feeling, I mean. Part of it, I'm sure, is anger. Certainly at her, for thinking I'd be of any comfort (In her eyes I can see that's what she's searching for). But even more of that anger is pointed at me, for appearing approachable in the first place, especially since I don’t want a repeat of Hope (this girl looks young enough – or at least sweet enough – to be wanted). That’s when I feel the regret and sadness, but I push them down. Is it sad that anger is the only emotion I can truly identify?

 

I can tell she thinks I haven’t seen her yet. I can see it in the tentative steps she’s taking towards me, in the way she keeps her head more or less lowered. She’s trying to hide it, but she still looks utterly pitiful (this place has gotten me good at reading people). 

 

I don’t know how, but she’s managed to get close to me. Like, actually close. As in, even in my peripheral vision, I can see her wounded blue eyes. I snap my head up, staring straight into a crystal sky. One that’s ready to shatter. I can see her on the brink of something, but I’m clueless as to what.  _ Good. _ Let’s keep it that way. Since the age of eight, I’ve conditioned myself to be alone. Why change now? 


	4. mission, confliction

//Lena POV//

 

It’s obvious after a few seconds that this girl isn’t going to be moving or speaking any time soon. I see it in her deer-in-the-headlights expression, despite the way her feet are planted resolutely, as if she’s expecting a physical blow.  _ Good.  _ I’m glad I don’t look  _ that _ approachable. 

 

“Can I help you?” I ask in a voice so cold and harsh that she flinches visibly.

 

She looks surprised, almost as if she’s been pushed onto the stage of a play she never rehearsed for. “I, um, actually didn’t mean for this,” she says in a remarkably timid voice. 

 

It takes all my willpower not to roll my eyes (that would make me seem more relatable). However, I can’t keep a faint tone of annoyance out of my inflection (my face stays impassive) when I reply: “You didn’t mean for  _ what _ ?” I make sure to accentuate the  _ what _ . Maybe I can make her flinch again. She doesn’t.

 

“Like, I didn’t mean to walk to you, really. I was just looking.”

 

I almost laugh this time. Not an amused laugh; an incredulous one. Instead I raise my right eyebrow, ever so slightly. “Looking.”

  
  


She shuffles her feet, eyes darting around the floor awkwardly. “Y-yea, like, looking at you. Not for anything weird, of course, ‘cause that would be weird.”

 

“You don’t say,” I respond dryly.

 

The girl starts to reach for the giant sketchpad under her arm (how did I not notice that?). She pauses for a second, unsure, but then grabs it out anyway. If I weren’t watching and reading her every move, I would have missed the hesitation.

 

“Ok, fine. I was gonna draw you,” she says. “It is a  _ little _ weird.”

 

“Yes, it is.”

 

“But just to let you know, you’re not special,” she continues. “My book is full of them already.” Both corners of her mouth move up into a close-mouthed little smile. It’s near devious enough to be a smirk, it’s more mischievous, with a little bit of sheepishness thrown in. She moves her hand to her glasses and adjusts them the tiniest bit.  _ She’s trying to lighten the mood. _ I just glare at her in silence. Her small smile goes away quickly, replaced by a determined, set line. She pushes her glasses up, this time a swift motion that seems unconscious.

 

“Here, look.” She opens her sketchbook to the first page, turning it towards me so I can see it better. “This is some girl that I drew yesterday. I don’t know who she is, though.”

 

To be honest, neither do I. I set my face to look unimpressed (even though the drawing is actually spectacular). 

 

“Do you normally take it upon yourself to walk up to strangers and draw them?” I ask.  _ Dammit _ . Too amicable.

 

Her cute (what?) little half-smile returns. (What the  _ hell _ did I just think? What was I thinking? First I let her through a crack in my armor (it doesn’t matter how small it is, I’m stronger than that!), then I think her  _ annoying _ little smile is cute? This has to stop.) 

 

“Actually, you’re kind of the first person tha-”

 

I  cut her off before I let any more of my emotions get the better of my thoughts.  “Well, I don’t know about these other girls, but I am not interested in being a model for some pathetic new girl.”

 

My words have the immediate, desired effect. Her damn smile disappears. Her head droops, her shoulders sag. 

 

“ I-I guess I’ll be on my way then,” she says quietly, defeatedly. 

 

“Mm, quite so,” I reply, confident now that I am back in control (of the conversation and myself).

 

“Sorry…,” she all but whispers, and walks away. I let a huff of air out through my nose (the closest I’ll get to a laugh), smirking internally. I regained control and got what I wanted: to be left alone.

 

_So why do I feel a twinge of sorrow as the girl walks away?_ Damn good question. _I don’t even know her name._ And that’s a problem because…? _I’ve never been one to second guess myself. Ever since Hope left, I haven’t let any emotions through, in or out._ _Maybe that’s the source of my incandescence._ It’s not incandescence. Being angry at people who get adopted isn’t hatred of everything. _So why am I letting my anger for the people who get adopted ruin my perception of the whole world?_ Because the world sucks. It’s full of people who don’t know how to love. _Well, I’m certainly one to talk._

 

But as I glance at the girl again, I think maybe it wouldn’t suck so much if I let the right person learn how to love me. 

 

//Kara POV//

 

The exchange was enough to make me hope that I didn’t have to interact with anyone in this place again for the rest of my time here.  However long that may be, it didn’t matter to me.  All I knew is that I didn’t want to be placed under the hard, cold, scrutiny that her gaze held again. 

 

_ I felt my eyes betray me (again), searching her face against my will. _

I guess I didn’t know what I expected. I observed so myself, that girl had no emotion betraying any part of her… her fingers, her posture, her feet, her face… all perfect masks in their own ways. I didn’t know what I was getting into.

 

_ Her face, though. _ Unargueably,  _ undeniably _ , flawless. A perfect jawline, a face framed by raven colored hair that spilled over her shoulders. Dark, perfect eyebrows to match her hair. The only thing bright about any of her features were her eyes. Have you ever seen grass in the morning? How it always seems brighter then, with the morning dew reflecting the sun back into your eyes.

 

And under her harsh (her beautiful) eyes, I felt like the sun was in my eyes. Like I had to shield myself just to face her, to protect myself from her.

 

Not that she made any threatening advances to me. Honestly, I may have just preferred verbal (or physical) abuse to what this girl made me feel. I felt collected at first, I felt like I could get something out of her. I tried some sarcasm, I even gave her my signature ‘Kara Danvers Smirk,’ (yea, don’t know what I was trying to accomplish with that one.) I showed her one of my drawings, the best one I had done yet, in hopes that perhaps she would know which kid it was. I meant for it to be a conversation starter, a mood lightener. I guess she wasn’t impressed, on the inside or the outside. She just looked at me with  _ so much judgement.  _ Ok, it didn’t show, but I could feel it radiating from her like gamma waves. It was killing me. All I could do was stand there, and even though I was taller by about two inches, I felt so small. I vaguely remembered nervously fidgeting with my glasses; a habit I had broken years ago (what the  _ hell _ was this girl doing to me?) All it took was for her to sneer (I can’t even really say sneer, her tone was dead);  _ “Well, I don’t know about these other girls, but I am not interested in being a model for some pathetic new girl,”  _ to drain me of all my confidence. To falter my stance and to let my head down. It was such a minor exchange, it took no more than 3 minutes of my life, but it was like she was my superior, and she  _ knew  _ it. I felt belittled. I felt insignificant. And it didn’t feel good. Insignificance is not what I need here. I need someone to build me up, to restore me. I didn’t need her. Why did I apologize to her then? Obviously, I had inconvenienced her somehow. Maybe that’s just what I am; a slight inconvenience to most people in the world. Perhaps to everyone in the world, now that anyone who mattered to me was gone. 

 

Suddenly, my thoughts froze. Against my will. I felt my left hand shake. I felt my eyes roll into my head. And then I saw it; flames.

 

Just as quickly as my eyes rolled into my head, they rolled back out. My vision cleared as if nothing happened (I was almost convinced that nothing  _ did _ actually happen.) I clenched and unclenched my hand. They were under my control. I blamed the second long episode on her. The girl was obviously getting to me, her complete indifference managed to make all the difference to me.

 

So is that why? Is that why I sat in my room, furiously scribbling at my sketchpad? What about her compulsed me to take her blank slate of a face and put more detail into it than I have ever put into any of my other drawings. Tell me why I turned her loaded words and made them into something that they weren’t. 

 

Maybe I was just trying to prove to no one in particular that I wasn’t pathetic. Maybe one day, she would see this and realize (hope to God that  _ someone _ realizes) that I’m not pathetic. I mean something (right?)

 

Tell me why my finished project was a portrait of this girl, her raven colored hair shaded to perfection, a playful smile on her lips, and sparkling eyes that held stories to be told (stories that maybe I dreamed she would tell me one day.)

 

I ripped the page out of my book. The first one to leave. I walked up to the wall opposite of the single window that was installed in my bare room. And I hung her onto a patch of sunlight that was shining through the window, and onto the wall. In this sense, I didn’t feel the need to shield myself from her anymore. In this drawing, she was my friend.

 

After simply staring at it for at least an hour, after gathering my emotions and thoroughly thinking (and rethinking, and thinking again) about today’s earlier exchange with the girl, I smiled widely, the first time I’ve smiled like this since I got here.

 

Because for the first time since I arrived, I’ve found a purpose. And I wanted to kick myself in the shins for it. I know this won’t be easy. I know this is never what my intentions were.

 

But I think I’m prepared for what I’m getting myself into. I have to be.

  
“I don’t know your name, and I don’t know your stories, but you… you’re my mission in this place.” (I directed my statement to the drawing more than I did to myself.)


	5. breaking walls

//Kara POV//

I’m thoroughly convinced that my brain wants me dead.

Because I caught myself staring at the girl again. Yes, I know I told myself that it was my mission to get to know her, but I didn’t intend to put my plan into play by turning all stalker on her.

But before I give myself too much credit, I technically didn’t catch myself staring. _She_ caught me staring.

“What the hell is your deal? Why do you keep watching me?” Her voice was seething, her eyes blazing. It was more than enough to snap me out of my stupor. She was in front of me now, closer than what we had been last time (is this a small win for me?)

“Who says I was watching you? There’s like 27 other kids in here.” Of course I wasn’t stupid, I knew I was caught, so why the hell I tried to play it off like I wasn’t totally giving this girl a complete staredown, I don’t know. But I stood my ground. I was (foolishly) defiant.

“Don’t play dumb with me, you little shit.” She practically hissed the words through her teeth. _Why is she so. Damn. Mad?_ Even though her words were scathing, and even though I wanted to shrink under her gaze, my eyebrow decided to raise itself in a display of surprise at her words (a bold move in this situation, eyebrow.)

“You’re kind of a spitfire, aren’t you?” I wanted to zip my lips as soon as the words came out of my mouth. I really didn’t mean to sound so… almost flirtatious? Or was it something else? I didn’t have time to ponder on it, because I became too absorbed on the girl’s changed atmosphere. Her mouth set into a hard line. The anger disappeared, replaced by something else… bitterness.

“Oh, yeah, how very typical of a Luthor, isn’t it. Is that it?” Her eyes lost any trace of anger, any trace of contempt. Instead, they grew empty. Cold. Dead. I couldn’t decide which version of her eyes made me more afraid.

_Afraid_. I wasn’t really afraid. So why did I freeze for a fraction of a second when the girl let it slip; when she told me who she was. Why did I let the fear take hold of me (I know this girl isn’t her brother, I know.) And then I was sad. Sad that for just a moment, I let my fear take the reigns of my judgement, of my emotions.

“Y-you’re Lena Luthor… , I-I didn’t mean it that way.” Lena didn’t look convinced. As a matter of fact, in just that moment, Lena didn’t look like anything. Not in the same way as I had seen her before, where she was emotionless. In this way, she looked… defeated, _lost_.

And as quickly as defeatedness shrouded Lena, it was gone.

“Oh, sure. ‘You didn’t mean it that way.’ Everyone says that. I’m a scary Luthor, better run! While you’re at it, why don’t you just lock me up in a prison?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. Her eyes were daring me to take the bait. To be afraid.

But I wasn’t afraid. I was pissed. Pissed that Lena was using her namesake against me, that she turned this whole conversation around and made _me_ sound like the villain (and not in the sense that Lena was a monster because of what her _brother_ had done.) She was the one who was making this so difficult. Why wouldn’t she _just let me…_

“I told you, I didn’t mean it like that. And you’re already kinda doing that to yourself, don’t you think? I think if anyone’s running from anyone, it’s you running from yourself.” Yeah, I had let my anger get the better of me this time. But I was sure that she needed to hear it from someone. She needed to hear that she was doing this to _herself_. Not anyone else in this home. Not her brother. Not me.

And then she did it again. She turned this whole conversation around. She smirked, (and did I catch an eye roll there?), like she knew she was about to unload the words that would defeat me.

“And what would you know about me?”

“W-well. I mean I guess-” All I could do was sputter out my (not so much of a) response.

I couldn’t answer in that moment, and Lena thought that she had won.

“Exactly. You don’t know me.”

Something inside me clicked, and I don’t know what it was. I’m not sure why I had thought that this was the next move to make, the best thing to say. All I knew is that I couldn’t leave our conversation like that. I couldn’t let her think I was done. She wasn’t going to shake me like she had last time.

I leaned into her ear. Close. Close enough to feel her hot breath tickle my neck. I stopped when I could feel my lips brush the _slightest_ bit against her ear (did her breath hitch? Did her heart speed up like mine did?)

“Maybe I want to.” It was barely a whisper, but it was enough.

Lena’s mood changed instantaneously. Her arrogance turned to insecurity, I could sense it. I could practically see her building her mental walls back up, constructing them as to make sure that nothing would break through them again.

She shoved past me. Hard. Her abrasive actions gave all too much away. I couldn’t help but smile as I rubbed my shoulder.

I’m positive that Lena thought that nothing would get to her. That nobody was capable of putting a chink in her armor. I don’t know her story, and I don’t know what this home has made of her for all the time she has spent here, however long that may have been.

But I do know that I had just wagered war on Lena Luthor. This war has two sides: Lena, (she doesn’t want anyone stepping into her territory. She is an isolationist. She thinks she’s alone,) and me (I want to invade. I want to make better of her.)

I started a war, and this battle… I have won this battle.

//Lena POV//

I don’t know what possessed me to actually go up and confront that damn little girl (I still don’t know her name). Sure, I had daydreamed about yelling at her until she left me the hell alone, but I didn’t ever plan on actually approaching her. And I _certainly_ didn’t plan on _exploding_ like I did. It’s just, it was at least the – nope, I stopped counting after about twentieth time I caught her staring at me (and that was in just an afternoon – _yesterday_ afternoon).

And to top it all off, _she figured out that I’m a Luthor_. Actually, that's a lie. She didn’t do anything. I let it _slip_ that I’m a goddamn Luthor.

I saw the fear in her eyes the instant I uttered that stupid name. And as soon as I saw that fear, I felt anger and… _bitterness_. Not triumphance at striking fear in her mind and heart as I normally would. It just made me more pissed.

Her words echo through my head: _“Y-you’re Lena Luthor… , I-I didn’t mean it that way.”_ She sounded so apologetic. So scared, it was pitiful. But it still just made me angrier, more bitter. I even sounded sarcastic when I replied to her. But I turned the conversation back around, throwing it full force back in her face.

But then _she_ got angry. It’s a look I’m not sure I like on her (especially when she’s making observations about me that are so harshly accurate they shake my confidence and even make me feel a stab of pain and fear).

That damn girl…

I did the only think I could think of doing. I put her on the spot. She didn’t fare well the last time I did that, so I assumed (hoped) she would be in the same predicament again. I threw the first thing I thought of at her, hoping my desperation came off as cynicism (or really anything other than desperation): “And what would you know about me?”

Her response was satisfying enough; I cut her off anyway just to be safe.

_“Exactly. You don’t know me.”_

I thought I had won. I was so sure that she would drop her head, slump her shoulders, shuffle away, just as she had done the first time we talked. But as soon as that last idea settled in my mind, I saw her expression change. Her eyes glinted. I could practically see the light bulb flick on in her head, causing light to shine out of her eyes. This was a look that fit her, a look of assuredness and confidence and playfulness. Just not when she was looking at me.

She moved even closer (had she started out so close to me? I hadn’t noticed). Her head tilted down just the tiniest of bits to brush my ear. I felt her breath, cool and a tiny bit faster than normal (was she flustered?). I felt her lips brush my ear. _Dammit. I hope to God she didn’t hear my breath catch, hope she couldn’t feel my heart pounding._

_“Maybe I want to,”_ she whispered.

No words came to me. I felt the walls that had taken so many years to build start to fall. I panicked. _Dammit, Lena, you never panic!_ I tried to gather up the pieces as best I could, throwing up temporary walls around every emotion I had. I couldn’t let this stupid little _girl_ see me reduced to the broken orphan I was – that I am. I move forward, shoving past her (maybe a bit too hard, but I have no regrets) and storming off to my room.

As soon as I shut the door, I squeeze my eyes shut. I try to calm down but I’m so. Damn. Angry. I hear Lex’s voice, from back when I was five and our mother took away my favorite stuffed animal, a hedgehog, just to spite me. I was furious and Lex was trying to calm me down ( _“It’s okay Lena. In…, out…. In…, out….”_ ). I try to match his tempo, focus on his young voice. _“In…, out…. In…, out….”_ But then I hear Her breath, instead of Lex’s comforting words, reverberating in my head. She was taking excited breaths, reveling in her boldness as she whispered confidently, almost flirtatiously, into my ear.

With a barely muffled scream, I punch the wall.

All I heard was a scream coming from the other side, and all I saw were a pair of bright blue eyes staring at me through the hole I just created.


	6. the fall, the catch

//Kara POV//

It was… an interesting sight, to say the least.

When I had returned to my room, feeling triumphant in my efforts to make a person out of Lena Luthor, I expected a night of peace (as much peace as I could get without going to sleep; I still didn’t trust my own brain to let me have a moment of serenity.)

I can tell you what I did _not_ expect. I did not expect a barely contained scream erupt from the other side of my thin, plain wall. What I expected even less was an entire fist, evidently having destroyed the perpetrator's side of the wall and reappearing on my side.

I let out a barely contained scream of my own (I’ve always been quite easily frightened.) Surprisingly, there was no noise coming from the other room. I was admittedly curious, I mean, anyone in this circumstance would be, right?

The moment I decided I was no longer curious was the moment I caught green eyes peering into my own through the fresh hole in the wall.

_Oh. My. God._

There were no confrontations. No exchanges. I didn’t come out of my room, and she didn’t come out of hers. Even when they came in to repair the wall, I stayed. I had too much on my mind for them to really be a bother to me anyways.

_Was I the reason why?_

_Did I manage to gain that much power over Lena?_

Or was I giving myself too much credit? I didn’t know whether to believe that I, a so called “pathetic girl” (by Lena’s own words,) would have really been the gasoline on the fire that was Lena’s emotions.

Alex always told me that I over-thought too much. She always warned me when I was obsessing over minute details that did not matter to the world (but they mattered to me.) Alex was gone, but her words stuck with me. She was gone, but she was still right.

I’m thinking too much.

(So is that why for just a moment, my brain stopped thinking altogether?)

Again, like the night after my first confrontation with Lena, (when I couldn’t stop thinking about the way she got into my head, the way she made me feel so small,) I froze where I stood. I could feel my knees wobble, but I was helpless to do anything about it.

Ringing in my ears. Screams.

Light in my eyes. Flames.

Screams and flames and heat and explosion and glass and me falling to the ground, trying to escape it all.

Again, like the night it first happened, it lasted for only a few seconds (but hadn’t it lasted for only a fraction of a second the first time?)

When my eyes snapped back to the front of my head, I found that I was kneeling on the ground, my knees seemingly unable to carry my weight for that brief moment. My breathing is uneven (why was it so irregular?) as I rise to my feet again, pacing around the room once before I place myself on the edge of my bed. I realized that I didn’t remember falling.

What I do remember is that on both occurrences, I was investing all my thoughts into Lena.

It may be a coincidence. But what if it’s not?

_Maybe I need to not think so much (about her.)_

//

Maybe I need to not think so much (about her.)

Evidently, I’m not good at “maybe.” I wouldn’t call it obsessive (anyone else would.) No, I would call it passionate. Dedicated, even.

It took dedication to do what I do. To stay up all night in order to escape the past. To hold a piece of paper just inches away from your face, analyzing every shade, every line, every bit of detail that was put into the art. To bear through hand cramps and disappointment when the piece doesn’t turn out the way you had hoped. It certainly took dedication, and I think I have just a little too much.

I finished the third piece of that night. I don’t know what time it is, but the sun has long set and the moon’s is the only thing providing any source of illumination. It was enough for me. I stepped back to admire my work. A younger version of a girl with raven hair and green-grass-with-morning-dew eyes and a ear to ear grin. I had placed her on a wooden swing. I had made her look up at the setting sun with a gleam in her eyes, one that I can only assume was there at some point in her life. The swing was attached to an ancient looking oak tree, one that looked like it was strong enough to outlive earth itself. A huge branch extended from the trunk, and on the branch, I drew a boy. He was several years older than the girl, and he was extending his hands downwards, as if he was reaching for her. Like he was there for her. They both were happy. They both were alive.

Nothing like I had seen of Lena in this place. I could only dream; play through all the different scenarios in my head, ones where she was youthful and childish and where she _allowed herself to express herself._

And the boy. Of course I only knew of Lex Luthor in the context that he was a murderer, and nothing but that.

When I imagine a younger Lena though, I imagine someone who had a brother. A brother who was there for her and cared for her and would never let her down.

I looked up to the moon, and shook my head gently. These were just ideas. My reminiscence of lives and memories that weren’t even mine (that probably weren’t Lena’s either.) I stood up, and quietly walked to the other side of my room, aware that Lena could most likely hear every sound I made had she been awake. I pressed my ear to the repaired wall. _This is kind of a shitty repair job, now that I’m looking at it_. My ears couldn’t detect any noises. I walked back to my sketch pad, and gently ripped out my newest piece of work.

I have never drawn the same person twice in this place.

Except for Lena. I’ve drawn her five times now.

I pin my fifth portrait on the wall, right next to the repaired area, but careful to avoid the crack that runs through the poorly applied plaster. I’m not sure why.

As a tradition, I usually spend the last few minutes of my consciousness flipping through my wallet of pictures before I allow myself sleep (two hours at the most.) I’ve found that looking at the pictures tends to push my night terrors back, just for a little bit. I open the drawer of my desk, which is where I tend to keep it.

I always breathe a little easier every time I find that it’s still there. I shuffle through the pictures. I must’ve looked at each one more than a hundred times since I’ve arrived.

It’ll still never be enough.

I wonder if Lena had her own version of my wallet. If she had something that allowed her to connect to a better time; where she was a better version of her. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe that’s why she’s the way she is now, because she’s allowed herself to forget. If I thought about it hard enough, I could recall what she smelled like (did she like the way I smelled?) I remembered the way her fresh, clean, scent, tickled my nose. Cucumbers. I wonder if she liked the way my breath felt on her ear, similar to how I liked the way I could feel her face get hot. The way I felt her breathing pattern change against my stomach (that’s how close I was. So. Close.) Sometimes, I almost think that her pattering heart gave indication to how she really felt about the exchange. But then I think about her words prior. How biting. How bitter. I always come to the same conclusion: she doesn’t have room in her heart for this. And it only compelled me to accomplish my mission. Write the treaty to the war.

And it’s then again, it’s when she’s on my mind once more (why was I so damn drawn to the thought of her, when she was so obviously against the idea of me?), it’s then that I felt the tremors. I felt my hands shake. My knees became weak. The air left my lungs, and I struggled to get it back (unsuccessfully; I sounded like a fish out of water.)

Before my eyes saw the back of my head, they saw flames.

Before my ears heard the screams, they heard a quick hit to the wall on the other side (my thoughts had been so preoccupied with Lena, I hadn’t noticed any other noises before.)

Before I could help myself, get myself to my bed, or steady myself using my desk, I fell to the floor once again. Hard.

_Explosion._

//Lena POV//

The repair people finish repairing the wall before noon the next day. Unsurprisingly, they end up doing a piss-poor job at patching up the wall. I could touch it and I bet it would crumble. I nevertheless let them work. The last thing I need is a gaping hole where I can see this girl every day.

I still don’t even know her name, and her room is right next door to mine. How had I not realized this? And now, with my punch through the wall (which is her fault, by the way), I’ve essentially laid bare every pent up emotion I have to her. I can’t afford to associate with her. At least not for a long while. Not until I can convincingly build up my emotionless character again.

So we both stay in our rooms after the repair people leave (I know this because I can hear her moving around through the even-thinner section of the wall, not that I’m actively listening, not at all). I occupy myself by recounting my conversations with this stupid girl. I’m nothing if not good at learning from my mistakes. I’m so caught up in my head that I start profoundly when I hear a thump from the girl’s room. It wasn’t very loud in reality, but I had let the repetitive sound of the girl pacing become background noise.

Curious, I get up from my bed and walk over to the newly (and poorly) painted section of wall and place my ear as close to the surface as I can. I’m surprised when I hear somewhat desperate gasps of breath on the other side of the wall. Then the breathing returns to normal, and I hear her get up from the ground and walk over to her bed. I hear the springs creak long and loud as she carefully sits on her bed. At this, I shrug and move back to my bed.

I can’t say I care about what happened to the girl just now, but I can’t deny that I’m curious. So I get up, grab my swiss army knife from under my pillow (I’ve never used it, it’s just always been a security thing, just so I can know I have the means to defend myself) and go over to the wall. Switching out the longest blade (which is still small, only about two and a half inches long), I drive the knife into the wall experimentally. The first quarter of an inch sinks in easily. I yank the knife out and drive it in again, this time at a different angle. _This might take a while…._

I have to stop chipping away at the new plaster every time I hear her start to move towards the wall. It happens pretty periodically. Another mystery. _Why am I becoming so interested in this girl? I don’t even like her!_ Nevertheless, as soon as I hear her sit back down, I continue to chip away until the sun sets and shadows fall across my pile of chipped-off plaster.

I step back and admire my handiwork. There’s a dent, about as big around as a penny and about two inches deep, right in the middle of my wall. I allow myself a smile. _Your secrets won’t be secrets soon, girl._ With the warm feeling of accomplishment settling over my chest (dare I say heart?), I climb into bed, falling asleep within minutes.

_I stand there, stupefied, as the girl leans in. Her head has to bend down a tiny bit for her mouth to be next to my ear. A strand of her blonde hair falls down from behind her ear and bounces against my nose. Her arms move from dangling by her side to gripping my biceps carefully, but firmly. She pulls me even closer. I feel her heartbeat, even and calm. Her breath is cool, calming. Her lips, soft as velvet, brush my earlobe. I shiver at the touch, my heart speeding up, hammering out of my chest. Then she whispers in my ear, her grip strengthening, as if she wanted to make sure I didn't run away (why would I?)._

_“Maybe I want to.”_

_Suddenly realizing where I am, I push her away and run towards my room. But as soon as I walk through the doorway, I'm in the common room again. The girl leans in. Her head has to bend down a tiny bit for her mouth to be next to my ear. (Wait, didn't this just happen?) Her lips, still just as soft, brush my earlobe. I shiver at the touch (again), my heart speeding up, hammering out of my chest (again). Her fingers close tighter around my biceps and she whispers into my ear._

_“Maybe I want to.”_

I jerk awake, heart beating fast ( _as fast as it did when she whispered in my ear, my mind unhelpfully supplies_ ). Closing my eyes, I try to focus on breathing evenly. But as soon as I do, I see a lock of golden hair falling in front of my face. Angry now, I swing my legs out of bed and walk over to the dent in the wall I made. The moon is up and shining bright; I mustn’t have slept long. I grab my knife and start chipping away again.

Then I suddenly hear something. It’s the girl (who else would it be, Lena?). She’s gasping for air again. But this time, it sounds like none is getting in. I drop the knife and almost trip over my own feet, hitting the wall as I clamber for the door.

 _What am I doing?_ I wonder as I turn the handle, rushing out of my own room and into the hall. I hear a loud thud. She must just have fallen. Hard.

 _Helping a girl who can’t help herself_ , my mind provides as I burst into the girl’s room.


	7. on razor's edge

//Kara POV//

 

_ I was back. _

 

_ I was in my living room, splayed across the couch with Alex in my lap. I was eating the leftover pot stickers that someone had left in the fridge (I hope they weren’t expecting to get them back.) _

 

_ Alex was gushing to me about Maggie. About how she had slept over at Maggie’s house the other night. About how they made cookies and watched Captain America and held hands under the blanket and made a pillow fort like they were young again and the world didn’t matter. _

 

_ She looked down at the floor, but I could see the rosy blush on her cheeks. _

 

_ “Kara, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more like me before.” _

 

_ I extended my fingers to play with her hair. _

 

_ And when my fingers reached her hair, all I could feel was blistering heat. _

 

_ Suddenly, the heat was gone. I was outside again, stepping off the bus (but I was just inside with Alex?), just like I had that day. _

 

_ I heard voices, screaming, laden with betrayal and pain. _

 

_ “Kara, why did you leave us? Why aren’t you here?” _

 

_ But then I was there. I was inside my house, my burning house, yet I was unaffected. The flames lapped at me, but to no avail. _

 

_ “Kara!” The screams had never felt so heavy, so close…  _

 

_ My family was before me, all on their knees, as if they were begging me to make it stop (as if (God do I wish) I had any control over what was happening. _

 

_ I could only see the white of their eyes, any trace of tears gone, the searing temperatures causing them to evaporate as they appeared. They were convulsing, blood dripping from the corners of their mouths. I could do nothing but stand there. My feet were melted into the floor, it’s like I was walking through wet concrete.  _

 

_ “Please, Kara. Help us.” _

 

_ They were on fire. _

 

_ My world was on fire. _

 

I was on the brink of consciousness. I knew, because I could faintly see the incandescent ceiling light through my eyelids. The air had returned to my lungs. I took deep, gulping breaths, but my eyes remained closed. There was a faint voice, peaceful, and soothing.

 

_ “Hey, hey, you’ll be fine. Just listen to my voice, focus on me. Come on, it’s okay. Breathe.” _

 

It’s definitely a girl, and she holds my head in her lap. Her hand is gently caressing my hair. I almost want to keep my eyes shut. To let her be, to let myself be held for just a moment longer.

 

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter before I open them. A soft face is close (so close) to mine.

 

It’s Lena.

 

I immediately panic. I remember the episode perfectly. As vividly as the day it happened, except worse. There are numerous thoughts running through my mind, every single one relating to the notion of being absolutely terrified.

 

I could not let her know that. I’m not about to seem so weak, give myself (my background, my  _ story _ ) up to Lena so quickly.

 

So I do what anyone would do. I smiled. I smiled like I didn’t know what I had just experienced, I smile like I had just waken up to her in bed (what?) rather than on the dirty floor that I had been convulsing on.

 

I have never seen softer eyes in my life, than what I see in this moment. I’m grinning like a maniac, hoping that my defenses were enough to elude, just for now. For a moment, she looks like she’s struggling to come up with words to say. I don’t blame her. Saying  _ anything  _ after witnessing what had just happened would be difficult to do.

 

“I don’t even know your name.” She mutters the words, almost ashamedly. I’m taken aback, really. I had expected an “Oh my god,” or an “Are you okay?” Even more so than those words, I had expected a disgusted look, maybe contempt, maybe anger at herself for allowing herself to get so close to me. To appear vulnerable in her own sense.

 

But no, she just wants to know a little piece of me.

 

My smile isn’t so much of an act anymore. I happily oblige to enlighten her. I’m not going to play the same game she’s playing with me. I tell her who I am.

 

And seeing as she’s still holding me in her lap, seeing her eyes flick towards my hair, as if she wants to stroke it one more time, watching her tongue dart out just once to lick her lips, I think that maybe she had had a change of heart. Maybe she’s more invested than she let on. I laugh. I can’t help it. I am truly puzzled, genuinely curious as to exactly  _ why _ this is happening right now. 

 

Out of all the people, why her?

 

“Didn’t know you cared.” I phrase it casually, avoid framing it as a question, as if asking her anything would startle her, scare her away. I could see it in her eyes. I don’t know what she is doing this for, and neither does she.

 

Despite the confliction I detect within her, despite the fact that I’m  _ still _ in her lap, her hand barely hovering over my hair, her fingers twitching with yearning, despite the way she nervously licks her lips again, and despite the way (the damn way) she’s gazing into my eyes, her response is concrete. It’s like she didn’t want to say it, but years of her being the way she is has trained her to forfeit her heart, to be mechanical. Her response is just that; robotic, without emotion, and without thought.

 

“I don’t.”

 

What are my eyes searching for? Regret? Guilt? Hurt? It doesn’t matter anyways. As soon as Lena utters the words, she averts her gaze. Tenses her muscles, sets her jaw firmly. She turns away. Her hands slide under my head, firmly (nevertheless gently) sliding my head off her lap. I let it fall to the hardwood floor.

 

She stands up stiffly, as if she’s been sitting with me for a while. I tilt my head a bit to glance at the clock. It hasn’t been that long (not long enough for me.) She doesn’t carry the same authority now, as she shuffles, head down, and silent. 

 

I am all too caring. I am all too concerned. I am too invested for my own good. In my head, I know that this is only causing me pain and hurt, and watching Lena walk out this door, so  _ alone _ … 

 

“Lena…”

 

She doesn’t turn. She doesn’t hesitate. She’s out of my room, leaving me to lay here on the cold floor (I missed her warmth the moment she let me go), and she didn’t say a word.

 

I hear the sound of her door shutting, and the swift click of her lock.

I know I can’t leave her like this. I know I can’t let her leave  _ me  _ like this.

 

I stand, and am immediately impacted by a wave of nausea that soon subsides (some pains can be forgotten.)

 

I don’t have to go very far to reach her door, and though I heard her lock the door myself, I instinctively grab the knob, twisting it hard several times, and I don’t stop, even when I plead to her to open up. I can’t help myself, I’ve never been the best at controlling my emotions. I feel a tear roll down my cheek. I continue to shake, I continue to pound on the door. How could I not keep trying? How could I walk away from her now, when she  _ held me in her lap _ when I needed (craved) someone the most (whether she was aware or not of my dreams, my history.) 

 

Like I said, I never was good at handling myself. I slammed the door. Hard. 

 

“DAMMIT!” 

 

_ Why _ . Why did Lena leave me this when I needed security, attention,  _ anything _ , the most. I turn my back to the door, but I don’t leave. I slide down the door, and bring my knees close to my chest. I hug them tight, tighter than anything I’ve held since I’ve held my family in my arms. I let my head fall into them, the same head that fell into Lena’s lap just minutes ago. I bring my head back up, resting it against her door, and stare at the ceiling. I imagine her eyes staring back, her soft, gentle hands, running nimbly through my hair again. It was in that moment that I knew that Lena wanted (needed) someone too. In that moment that I realized that she was not perfect. No, she was flawed, that flaw allowing for her to  _ care.  _ I close my eyes for a moment, imagining a young Lena, always telling herself that she had to be perfect. To her, that meant she couldn’t care enough about anything. To her, caring is a burden. Love is a deadly disease. I can tell that Lena never grew up in that sense. Still the same mentality, still the same fear, but with a new variable. The one always unaccounted for. For her, it’s the one that she would come across one day, broken and scared, in need of someone, and Lena would find that for once in her life, she could be that someone.

 

And that variable is me. 

 

I’m not sure if I could tell myself what I wanted from Lena in the long run, but I know what I want from her right now. 

 

I want her trust, I want her hands in my hair again, I want her eyes to lock with mine, so that simultaneously, we can both see that we’re really _ not all that different. _

 

_ I want, I want, I want…  _

 

“Please, Lena.”

 

I shut my eyes, in hopes that maybe for once, sleep will bring me more peace than being awake does.

 

//Lena POV//

 

I see the girl lying on the floor. Her legs are bent towards her torso; it looks like she’s trying to protect herself (but from what?). Her forehead is deeply lined, as if she’s concentrating, causing a tiny crinkle between her eyebrows. Her eyelids are fluttering, but her eyes are still open enough for me to see they’re rolled back into her skull, showing only the whites. Her golden hair is splayed out across the floor (a thought flashes through my mind for a fraction of a second:  _ She looks like a fallen angel. _ ). Her fingers are twitching, trying to curl up into a fist. Her mouth is open, her lips moving, as if she’s trying to say something. But her breaths (can they be called breaths if she can’t get air into her lungs?) are rapid, sporadic. Her eyes close suddenly, but her eyes are still moving rapidly under the lids. Tears start sliding down her cheeks. She’s almost convulsing, she’s shaking so hard.

 

I notice all this in less than a second, rushing over to her. I pick up her head and shoulders, resting them on my lap.  Without even thinking, I start stroking her hair.  _ The same hair that fell in front of my face…. _ I stop my train of thought right there. I can’t worry about my freakish dreams right now, I need to get this girl to snap out of it (whatever “it” is). So I start whispering in her ear, over and over: “Hey, hey, you’ll be fine. Just listen to my voice, focus on me. Come on, it’s okay. Breathe.”

 

It seems like forever before the girls muscles relax. I spare a glance at the girl’s alarm clock resting on her tiny bed stand. It's been three minutes since I left my room. I stop stroking her hair (have I really been doing this the whole time?). I have to move my head back from next to her ear in order to meet her eyes, which are now open, and back to their normal sky-blue beauty, and staring into my (boring in comparison) green eyes with a sparkle of amusement. 

 

“Hi Lena,” she says, a grin on her face. She doesn’t look at all concerned that she was just basically paralyzed on the floor, poor girl. Instead, she looks up at me (she’s still on my lap, with her head resting just inches away from my hand), surprise (of the pleasant sort) in her eyes and– is that tenderness? In  _ her _ eyes? It’s somewhat timid, but I nevertheless suddenly feel as though  _ she _ should be the one taking care of  _ me _ . Then I see the tiny crinkle between her eyebrows and remember….

 

I should– no, I  _ want _ to make sure she’s okay. I  _ want _ to stroke her hair again. I  _ want _ to just say something simple, like  _ hi _ . At the very least she deserves that. She deserves to know that I’m not completely heartless, that I did hear her fall (we’ll ignore the way I found out: trying to craft a way to observe this girl like a damn lab rat), and that I did care enough to come and help her (I’m starting to wonder how much of that decision was made by my brain that was still wired into my dream).I want her to see me as anyone other than a Luthor. Instead, I mutter, “I don’t even know your name.”

 

Her eyes light up even more, if that’s even possible (it is). Despite my precautions (and maybe my intent; I’m not sure yet), she was happy with what I said.  _ How is she so good at seeing goodness in people where there is none? _ “Oh my god, I didn’t even think of that! I’m Kara. Danvers. My name’s Kara Danvers.” She giggles. I marvel at the sound. She doesn’t sound fazed, awkward, or even embarrassed, despite her slight stumble over her words. She just sounds happy. “Didn’t know you cared.”

 

“I don’t,” I object immediately, regretting the words as soon as they leave my tongue. They’ve just become a reaction.  _ I’m a Luthor, I’m not supposed to care about anyone else _ . I suppose I should look the part. I turn my head (looking a bit more defeated than I should), clench my jaw, and stiffly move my hands away from her head.  _ I can’t let her know…. _

 

But the thing is, I do care about this girl, this _Kara_ (even her name is pretty (God damn it, Lena, stop!)). I must have, I realize, from the very first time she came up and talked to me. I remember wondering what that feeling was (it was obviously a mix of many, I just thought they were all bad.). She just seems to… _exist_ in a way I was never allowed to: free, kind, warm, loving, and, most astonishingly, _trusting_ , despite everything. I’m not sure how much of it is jealousy of her upbringing by an (actual) family, or even if it is jealousy. I _don’t_ _know_.

And that’s the scariest part to me.

 

Gently (but not too gently), I push Kara’s head off my lap and back onto the hardwood floor. I feel a sting in the corner of my eyes as I turn away from her body, still in its vulnerable position (of course they’re not tears; this room is full of dust). 

 

_ I don’t care. _

 

I turn towards the door. Normally I’d storm out but I can’t find it in me; I shuffle my way over, head only slightly down. As I turn the knob, I hear Kara speak, sadness and pity and concern lacing her voice.

 

“Lena….”

 

_ I don’t care.  _ I don’t even pause as I swing the door open gently (I guess I  _ can _ be good at that) and walk out of her room, quickly shutting it. I swiftly slide into my room (without the normal grace and poise; I can’t seem to muster it up), locking the door not a moment too soon; I hear Kara speaking outside my door, rattling the doorknob, but I can’t comprehend what she’s saying. She sounds distressed, maybe just a little bit frustrated.

 

_ I don’t care. _

 

I let myself fall into my bed. I watch the door, see the knob rattle as Kara continues to shake it. I want to close my eyes but I can’t. If I do, I’ll just see Kara, the defenseless blonde girl who lost everything, lying on the ground, gasping for air while silent tears fall down her face, staining my lap (No, you mean the hardwood. You can’t let yourself care.), without me even knowing why. I hear a loud hammering on the door, added to the futile twists on the doorknob. After about a full minute, I hear a loud  _ “DAMMIT!” _ and the rattling and pounding stops. I hear one final thud, but it’s not aggressive; I hear her slide down the door in defeat.

 

I can almost see Kara’s glass-sky eyes shatter into a million pieces behind her glasses. I can almost see her hair fall down in golden-yellow waves around her face as she drops her head in resignation. I can almost feel her breath on my ear, her silken tresses under my fingers, the reassuring weight of her head on my lap. I can almost feel her fingers intertwined with mine. 

 

“Please Lena,” I hear Kara call, her voice full of want. Her voice echoes in my head, ringing in all her voices: happy, pleading, bashful, curious, mournful, mischievous, anguished.

 

A tear rolls down my cheek in response.

 

_ I  _ can’t _ care. _

  
_ I won’t let myself. _


	8. check

//Lena POV//

 

I wake up from a dreamless sleep (a blessing, since my last dream led to that whole incident with Kara) to sunlight shining through my window. It makes me angry. How can the outside world keep spinning while the world I’ve gotten so used to is falling to pieces around me? How can the sun shine and the sky be clear when there’s a dark, swirling hurricane inside my head, all centered around a girl with sun in her hair and the clear sky in her eyes? I throw off the covers and stomp over to my window, yanking the curtains shut, blocking out the radiant sunlight, obscuring the perfectly blue sky.  _ I don’t want a reminder of her. _ Except maybe I do….  _ But the last thing I need is a reminder of her. _ I turn around and stomp back to my bed, letting myself fall face-first onto the twisted sheets and the lumpy mattress. I want to scream into my pillow in frustration. I want to throw something, anything. I want to punch my way through that wall again…. 

 

The wall. The hole I punched through it. The shitty job the repair people did. The feeling of my ear pressed against cheap plaster and partially-dried beige paint. The tiny spy-hole I had been making with my pocket knife last night. The sounds of Kara’s breathing I had heard. The sound of her knees hitting the floor and her gasping for breath when she had her episode (oh yeah, what even was that?). The fact that I could hear something as small as her shifting around on her bed. It all comes flooding back to me in an instant.

 

I freeze. The walls here are probably the shittiest, cheapest, thinnest walls in the entire city of Detroit (and that’s saying something). If Kara heard me storming around, I am royally screwed. If I woke her up, she’ll be waiting outside the door for me, waiting to confront me about last night. Ask me what was wrong. Try and talk to me and smile at me and break down even more of my walls. Or else scold me and scowl at me and demand I explain why I left her alone on her floor. I can’t deal with that right now. I can’t even deal with  _ myself _ right now. So I get up, with painstaking care, and walk over to my dresser to grab a new set of clothes, shampoo, my favorite cucumber body soap, and a towel. This is when years of being stuck in the same lackluster room, in the same shabby building, in the same troubled city comes in handy. I know exactly which floorboards to avoid and how much force I need to apply to open the dresser drawers. I check the clock as I sneak around my own room: it’s 7:02. I feel the urge to punch something again; normally I’m awake and ready by 7:00 sharp. This damn Kara girl is messing up my entire life….

 

When I’ve finally gathered all the stuff I need for the day (I don’t want to come back in my room until I absolutely have to, for fear ( _ fear?! _ ) of encountering Kara), I head to the door. I pause before I grab the doorknob, listening intently for any sound coming from Kara’s room. I glance over at the repaired section of wall without even meaning to (has this become an unconscious thing now?). I see my knife lying on the ground right where I dropped it last night, right on top of the pile of chipped plaster. I debate whether or not to go pick it up, finally deciding to put it back in its hiding spot since I’m not  _ technically _ supposed to be in possession of any weapon. Once I’ve put it back in the Converse shoebox I keep under my bed, I pick up my clothes, makeup bag, and soaps and open the door.

 

Upon doing so, I almost scream. 

 

As soon as I open the door, a limp body falls at my feet. It’s Kara. Her hair is still angelic, her fingers delicate, but her face is serene, her breathing calm and even, her eyes moving only slightly under her closed lids. I almost want to rest her head on my lap again and stroke her hair and whisper into her ear….

 

Instead, I push aside the box of chess pieces from Lex I keep on my bedside table, place my stuff down in the room I made, and pull Kara (a little ungracefully, but not harshly) into my room a little bit, just so her feet aren’t out in the hall. I’m honestly surprised that she sleeps through the whole thing, but I’m certainly grateful. When I’m satisfied that she’s positioned comfortably (remind me again why I care?), I grab my clothes and swiftly leave the room, heading down to the end of the hall where the bathroom is.

 

One of the perks of getting up as early as I do is that I usually get to use the bathroom first. Today is one of those days; none of the other girls have even woken up yet. I get the bathroom all to myself for at least another half hour. That means I get to use thirty minutes worth of hot water, and I intend to use the hell out of it. God knows I need a relaxing shower after last night. 

 

I end up just standing under the shower head, eyes closed, letting the hot water roll over me, for a solid twenty-five minutes. And during those twenty-five minutes, all I can see behind my closed eyelids, all I can think about, is Kara. 

 

_ I’m in the common room, on the first day I saw her. She’s walking slowly towards me with a kind (if not still tentative) smile. But I see her eyes burning with a blue fire, hotter than the sun. If I didn’t know better, I would have said I saw something like lust in her eyes. Then, all of a sudden, she’s right next to me, whispering in my ear. Her hair, once again, falls down to brush my nose. I feel her breath against my ear and my breath hitches. Everything is the same as it was when she confronted me (or did I confront her?), the second time that we ever spoke. Except her words are different. _

 

_ “Lena, Lena, Lena. What am I going to do with you? I can tell you have feelings for me. So why are you running from them?” Her arms circle my waist and pull me flush against her. Her arms are stronger than I ever would have thought; I try (a little half-heartedly) to move away, but I can’t. Kara rests the side of her head against mine. I can feel her even heartbeat at my temple, conflicting with my pounding heart. Then she whispers again: “Maybe I want to. Maybe I want to get to know you more. Maybe I want to kiss you. Maybe I want you to take care of me….” _

 

_ Her voice fades and I’m on the floor of Kara’s room, her head on my lap. I reach out and bury my fingers in her hair, breathing out a sigh at the calming sensation. I stroke her hair with my left hand (more gently and with more care than any other time I’ve done... anything) while, with my right hand, I rub circles on her palm. I want so badly to lean down readjust her glasses, stroke her cheek, kiss her forehead…. _

 

_ I look at her and her eyes are open. This time, they’re glowing with something else: not lust, but something softer (dare I say love?). _

 

_ “Lena…,” she whispers, every sad and loving emotion I can think of pouring into her voice. “Thank you. You saved me.” She pulls me down closer, and this time it’s a loose strand of  _ my _ hair that falls and tickles  _ Kara’s _ nose. Kara smiles her cute little close-mouthed smile before whispering, “Now you need to save yourself from your demons. Let go of the past, Lena.” Then she grabs the sides of my face and kisses me. _

 

My eyes fly open. I’m still in the shower with hot water enveloping me. My heart is beating erratically and my breathing is shallow.  _ Dammit, Kara. _ Shaking my head, I grab my shampoo and angrily rub suds into my hair. I quickly wash the rest of my body and step out of the shower. I’m glad there’s steam everywhere; I can’t see myself in the mirror. If I could, I would probably smash it. Instead I just let my head fall back and rest against the door.  _ Why is my life falling apart? _

 

I whisper my answer into the white haze hanging over the bathroom: “Kara Danvers.”

 

***

 

I get dressed quickly, put my hair up in its regular ponytail and carefully sneak back into my room to return my toiletries (I know I said I wanted to avoid this at all costs, but this is unavoidable (I’m totally  _ not _ checking on Kara)). Upon setting down my toiletries (making sure Kara’s still sleeping peacefully), I head downstairs to the kitchen to get breakfast. The wardens (as we call them; they don’t seem to mind) of the foster home are both seated at the kitchen island sipping coffee. Meghan, the girls’ caregiver, notices me first. Thank goodness. She at least pretends I’m a real human being half the time. 

 

“Lena.” She bows her head, eyes shut, as a way of greeting, just as she always does. Both her and John do it without fail, almost always at the exact same time. It’s unsettling, as if they share a mind. It’s always been this way in all the years I’ve been here. In fact, I was convinced for the first eight months of my time here that they were married. When I found out they weren’t, I spent the next seven months convinced they were dating. But no, they were – and still are – dancing around each other like a pair of clumsy ballerinas. Sometimes it helps to imagine them both in pink tutus….

 

“Meghan,” I reply, simply blinking once. I turn to the boys’ caregiver. “John.” He bows his head stiffly in return.

 

“What can I do for you Lena?” Meghan asks. She’s not as cold and dismissive towards me as John is, but she’s certainly in no hurry to warm up to me either.  _ Damn Luthor blood. _

 

“Is there anything you need done around the house today?” 

 

John and Meghan share a surprised glance. I can see why; it’s been about three years since I’ve offered to help with chores. Sure, I’ve completed the mandatory chores that cycle through to everyone in the home with little complaint, but I haven’t actively sought out work in a long time.

 

“Any particular reason for this sudden change in work ethic, Ms. Luthor?” John asks.

 

It takes almost everything in me not to roll my eyes at John’s words. Always the skeptic. He probably assumes I’m doing this to gain his and Meghan’s trust so I can stab them in the back later. Although to be fair, he is right to ask his question; the reason I’m offering myself up for slave labor is so I can stay away from Kara. Did he pick up on that? If he has, then I should probably say something about it….  _ Dammit. _ I’m overthinking things again. All because of Kara.  _ Everything I do now is because of Kara…. _

 

As if on cue, I hear a loud thud on the floor right above me (right where my room is; I know the layout of this prison by heart), followed by a crash, followed by Kara’s voice: “Mother-!” Then I hear another crash, this one heavier and familiar (Kara). A moment later I hear a laugh, Kara’s laugh, the sound of angels…. I sneak a glance at John. His head is turned towards the sound. His lips turn up a tiny bit at the edges, and his eyes soften. It’s as if he can sense her, even see her, and is smiling at her fondly.  _ Of course he has a soft spot for Kara. Why wouldn’t he? Why wouldn’t everyone? _

 

I let Kara’s clumsiness serve as a distraction for a while (Meghan is off taking inventory of the pantry and making a grocery list, so the silence lasts for about two minutes), before I clear my throat. As I suspected, John’s eyes harden, his lips turn down into a grim scowl again.  _ Typical. _ I know I should hate Kara for this, for her positive influence over  _ everyone _ around her, but I can’t. Instead, I hate  _ John _ more, just for being so happy with Kara while I’m seen as just another troubling foster kid (except six times the trouble in his eyes, one time for every letter in  _ Luthor _ ). 

 

“Ms. Luthor, why do you all of a sudden want to help? This hasn’t happened before. Has anything changed?” John restates.

 

I pause, considering telling him everything again.  _ He’ll understand, he likes Kara. _ But that’s exactly why he won’t understand. He likes Kara, he doesn’t like me, and I’m trying to avoid her. He’d hate me even more (he’d find a way to) if I told him.

 

“Nope,” I lie instead. “Why? Does anything have to have changed?” John just grumbles and turns back to his coffee. Meghan gives him a look (I can’t read it; I’m not that good yet) and turns towards me, a smile on her lips. It’s not quite a fake smile, but it’s certainly not one that shows she cares for me.

 

“Well, we’re glad you're eager to help, Lena,” Meghan says. “There are lots of chores to do, so you can choose what you end up doing. Any specific preferences?”

 

If nothing else, I have to give Meghan credit for treading carefully while still making it sound like I’m the one holding the cards. She's actually just making sure I won't run away. She masks her intentions well, but not well enough to get past a Luthor. And I think she knows it. 

 

I give a pleasant smile that I know doesn't reach my eyes. “As long as I stay away from the second floor,” I reply.  _ Where Kara is, _ I finish in my mind. 

 

Meghan knows better than to question my request.  “Okay, then how about you vacuum the common room. You remember where the vacuum is, right?” I nod. “Alright then! Thank you for your help, Lena.”

 

I walk over to the small closet next to the pantry and grab the vacuum out, quickly dragging it towards the common room. I walk to the outlet and plug the cord in. I turn on the vacuum cleaner turn around….

 

And lock eyes with Kara Danvers.

 

**//** Kara POV **//**

 

My eyes flutter open, bleary from last night’s tears. The first thing I see is the white plastered ceiling, which reflects the sunlight shining through the window back into my eyes. It’s so sunny out, it almost feels like the world is mocking me. I flex each of my fingers, one by one. After last night’s incident, I’ve been terrified that I won’t have control again, that my feet will be glued to the floor once more, my hands bound to my sides, my eyes forced to the front of my face to watch my family burn again. I let out a long breath that I didn’t realize I had been holding when each of my fingers obey my command. I clench my fists for no reason in particular.  I don’t remember much from last night, but I do remember feeling like absolute garbage. I also remember the certain someone who provoked those feelings.

 

I lift my right hand off the ground.  _ Lena _ . My fingernails dig into my palm, deep. I’ll probably have to take care of the blood later. As my mind makes all sorts of connections based on her name (not all of them good; most of them actually make me feel pretty shitty), I bring my fist back to the ground. That’s actually an understatement. I slam it, hard. Slam it against the floor like I slammed it against Lena’s door last night. The door that I fell asleep against. Lena’s door… 

 

I start as something crashes to the ground. I bolt upright, taking in my surroundings as the object’s collision with the floor rings in my ears. This is certainly not my room, and I panic as I realize that I am certainly not supposed to be in here. I jump to my feet, quicker than I probably should have. Blood rushes to my head, and I am overcome by dizziness. I stumble a few feet backwards, only to step on whatever it was that had fallen to the floor. It digs sharply into my foot, causing me to lift it in pain. “Mother-” I am cut off by myself, as I lose my battle against balancing on one foot, falling to the floor once more.  _ The floor where it all started. _ A million other things could be (should be) going through my mind right now, but I can only throw my head back and laugh as I think to myself how grateful I am that Lena wasn’t there to witness my grand fiasco. I roll over onto my stomach, extending my arm in search for the object responsible for my downfall. My fingers grasp onto a small figurine, and I bring it closer to my face for examination. It’s a knight, a part of a chess set. It seems to be undamaged. I release a sigh of relief until I realize that the floor before me is littered with many more. Gleaming black and white pawns, bishops, knights, rooks, and the royal king and queen all mocking me, daring me to make my next move. I’m not surprised if the entire floor below me heard the incident, but still, I am quiet and quick as I pick up all the pieces, thoroughly checking each one for damage before placing them back into the tin that they were in. 

 

I feel like I am in the clear when I pick up the last piece, the black queen. I give it a once over with my eyes, and run my fingers across the length of it, slowly rotating it with my forefinger and my thumb. My fingers pick up on the chip before my eyes do, and I know that because I feel a sharp pain on my thumb. I pull it back quickly, watching the blood pool from the small wound. I stick my thumb in my mouth to curb the bleeding, but I almost want to cry, because I’m fairly certain that the damage is my fault, and I’m fairly certain this will put a damper on our relationship. I feel incredibly guilty as I put the queen back into the tin, with the hopes that Lena will never see it, with the hopes that she’ll never hate me for it.

 

Tentatively, as if I expect to see an accusing face peering back at me, I look to the window, surprised to find that the curtains are shut. The room had appeared so well lit, I thought that the sun had free passage. The curtains were messy and rumpled, like someone had shut them hastily and violently. _Who knew Lena hated the sun and/or curtains so much?_ _Actually,_ my brain decided to contradict itself, _it seems pretty expected of her._ Several soft beeps drew me away from my internal monologue. My ears searched to locate the sound, and after turning in circles several times, I spotted an alarm clock that was indicating the hour. 8 A.M..  I wouldn’t take Lena for one to wake up any later than 7 A.M., and if my assumption was right, that meant that I had been slumped on her bedroom floor, unconscious, for about an hour. _Lena_ has left me here, slumped on her floor, unconscious, for about an hour. 

 

I feel selfish for feeling betrayed, for feeling hurt. Yet I feel entitled to my anger, to my ill feelings towards her. The confliction doesn’t help me feel any better about anything. I shake my head at no one in particular, thinking about how incredulous the situation actually is. 

 

She  _ held my head in her lap.  _ She ran gentle fingers through my hair. She didn’t know what was happening to me, and she rushed in my room, seemingly without a second thought. I could hear it in her voice, when she was whispering into my ear that everything was going to be alright. It was sincere, promising, delicate. I could tell that she wouldn’t have done anything differently if given the opportunity. 

 

So tell me I’m wrong for feeling hurt. Tell me I’m wrong for feeling like I was made a promise that couldn’t be kept. Tell me I’m selfish for  _ wanting more of her _ , the Lena that made me feel tingly, the Lena that gave me butterflies, the Lena that I envision in my dreams, underneath my body, breath hitching, heart pounding faster and faster, body shaking ever so slightly as I lean in closer and closer to her ear, whispering the words that have the power to toy with her emotions, to make her feel wanted,  _ needed.  _ The words to make her mine (am I being too possessive?)

 

“What the actual heck, Kara.” I mutter it to myself, because  _ someone _ needed to point out the fact that I was about to have awkward fantasies about a girl who (maybe? I don’t even know at this point,) doesn’t want to associate herself with me, in  _ her own room. _

 

I pace several times, unsure what to do until I situate myself on Lena’s bed. I impulsively bury my face in her pillow, and take in the scent (I also take into account how  _ weird _ I actually am.) It’s the same clean, fresh, cucumber smell that lingers in my memories. Breathing in the scent, I find myself feeling giddy, like the scent has pheromones, and they make me feel like I would do anything for her, anything to know her. I roll over onto my back, and glance at the alarm clock on her nightstand. 8:07.  _ Yikes. _ I realize that it’s wrong for me to have stayed in here for so long, and it’s definitely wrong for me to be laying on her bed, so breathing in one more time, I stand up, and walk out of Lena’s room, carefully shutting the door that led to it all behind me.

 

//

 

The guides (the other kids in the home call them the wardens, but I can’t bring myself to call them that. It makes this place feel too much like a prison to me,) took an immense liking to me from the moment I got here. I pin it on the fact that I’ve only been here for two weeks, and I’ve given them no reason to dislike me. The male guide, John, seems especially fond of me. He always asks me how I’m doing, he appears to be earnest and invested in our conversations. He puts a comforting arm on me now and then, and occasionally, he ruffles my hair playfully. There’s always a twinkle in his eye when he looks at me. Something about his gaze always becomes softer. 

 

I wish I could be annoyed, I wish I could dislike him for treating me differently from the rest of the kids. I wish I didn’t feel so selfish for wanting his attention, but I couldn’t help it. He reminded me of my dad, and it made this prison feel a little more like home.

 

I always figured that John and Meghan must have been generally kind and understanding people. They would have to be, in order to work in a place like this, right? I was aware that for some odd reason, John was a little bit more fatherly to me than what was perhaps appropriate, but my judgement wasn’t based upon that. I often observed the guides. I watched how they interacted with everyone, I got a feel of their personalities as soon as I became a part of this home. They looked at everyone with the same understanding and acceptance. And I believed that that was just who they were.

 

Until I see them looking at Lena, devoid of any sympathy and even empathy. Even Meghan, who looked like she was genuinely trying to feel something for Lena… I could see that she was apprehensive, unwilling, almost, to trust Lena. John however, lacked any trace of effort. His eyes were empty, the twinkle that I was used to was replaced by suspicion and bitterness. Like him and Lena had history. But of course  _ they _ didn’t have history.

 

Nobody in this place has history with Lena. They have history with Lex.  _ Why am I the only one who seems to understand this? _

 

I watch as Lena makes conversation with both of them. I can only see John move his lips for a brief moment, Meghan seems to be the one instigating further conversation. Even so, I can tell it’s forced. Her lips move quickly, sharply. I can practically hear the crispness in her voice. She smiles politely, but it’s an empty smile. I’m not sure what Lena is up to, but I’m definitely positive that now is not the time to confront her about anything, not in front of the guides, and not so soon after  _ waking up in her room _ (and not in the way that I would ever envision  _ (ok Kara, take it easy.) _ )  After several nods, Lena turns around, and I duck quickly (it’s almost comical) to avoid catching her eyes. I watch as she walks to the broom closet, and narrow my eyes as she pulls out the vacuum. I don’t think I’ve seen her take it out so eagerly before. As she backs out of the closet, she turns towards the common room. It’s only then that I realize that I have chosen perhaps the worst place to avoid Lena. My eyes sting at the prospect of facing her right now, I know I’m not ready, I know I won’t be able to keep my composure. I know that again, I’ll humiliate myself in front of her. I hold my breath as she walks to the far right corner of the room, the opposite corner to where I’m stationed, in order to plug in the vacuum.  _ If she turns around right now…  _

 

As if I need anymore reason to believe that there is no one up there watching over me, she turns around. The vacuum is whirring, but she is frozen in place, eyes fixated on me.

 

I’m not surprised when I feel the tear fall down my cheek. 

 

Lena Luthor has the vexing tendency to make me feel  _ some _ way, one way or another.


	9. blood will tell

//Kara POV//

 

_ As if I need anymore reason to believe that there is no one up there watching over me, she turns around. The vacuum is whirring, but she is frozen in place, eyes fixated on me. _

 

_ I’m not surprised when I feel the tear fall down my cheek.  _

 

_ Lena Luthor has the vexing tendency to make me feel some way, one way or another. _

 

I try to get the first word in, in order to appear stronger, perhaps more assertive. But as the distance between us closes, and as I am all too aware of my wet eyes, the only thing I manage to stammer out is; “I-I-”  _ Way to assert yourself, Kara. You truly have a way with words!  _ Lena cuts me off before I’m able to humiliate myself further.

 

“What do you want?” I almost feel bad. She sounds tired… defeated. Her voice holds none of the confidence and cunning that it did the very first time I ever spoke to her. 

 

“I wasn’t exactly planning on this.” I smile sadly, aware that yet another tear was rolling down my cheek, at the memory of the first time I had said this exact same line to her. I sloppily wipe the tear with my entire hand, the same hand that quickly shoots up to adjust my glasses, even though they didn’t need adjusting. The only times I’ve ever gotten back into this habit for the first time in years are exactly all the times I have had these confrontations with Lena.  _ Coincidence, right? _

 

“Really? That same card, huh?” I almost want to smile at the fact that she remembers that conversation. It  _ almost _ makes me feel like she cared enough to remember, and I would feel excited, if it weren’t for the fact that she says it so exasperatingly. Like I am just a mere child, wanting to play their games with the grown ups. 

 

And it’s there, where all the passion hits me at once. Where all my less-than-happy feelings rush to my head. Where all I can think about is how I  _ hate  _ it when Lena makes me feel this way, when she  _ leads me on _ the way she does; gives me glimpses of the side of her that she doesn’t let a single person in the world see anymore. When she gives me  _ hope _ , the kind of hope you get when you open the damn Pandora’s jar, and then just slams the lid shut, all while looking me in the eyes, because she knows exactly what she’s doing. She makes me feel so insignificant, so unworthy of her feelings, so undeserving of her. 

 

I have to keep myself from screaming; “I think we both know things aren’t the same this time.” My teeth ache from speaking through them while gritted.

 

“And who decided that?” Lena counters. I know she’s toying with me, she has to be, otherwise, she’s just outright oblivious.

 

I nearly leave my response at my eye roll. “You, Lena. You made this decision-” She cut me off. Again.  _ I’m not one to get violent, but if I have to stop myself one more time for her...  _

 

“Oh really. How’s that?” She spoke so incredulously, like she truly had no idea about the role she played in this (not really) relationship.

 

“ _ The moment,”  _ I realize that I am too many decibels too loud, and lower my voice, resorting to giving her an incriminating glare instead, “you locked eyes with me the first time-”

 

“No. No,  _ you _ ‘locked eyes’ with  _ me _ !” While there may have been truth in her statement, I clench my fists, in order to stop myself from screaming, punching the wall, punching her, or all three. I can’t believe… 

 

I am the one who’s voice is laden with exasperation now. “ _ Do not _ . Do not act like you weren’t a part of this. Do not try to dismiss yourself from the situation, and stop trying to dismiss  _ me!”  _  I jab an accusing finger at her chest, and she looks down in disbelief, her action as loud as if she had straight up said ‘how dare you touch me, a Luthor!’ But she doesn’t say anything. Lena lifts her head, chin jutting out, and crosses her arms pointedly. She’s clearly trying to say that she has nothing to say.

 

“What, don’t you have anything to say this time? Don’t you have some hurtful retort to hit me over the head with again? Don’t you have something to  _ say?” _

 

Her strong jaw trembles the slightest bit, but it is enough that my eyes pick up on it (my eyes pick up on  _ anything _ that girl does.) It gives away so much. It tells me that I’ve hurt her, that I’ve made her feel something that wasn’t  _ happy. _ I did that (and the very fact ashamedly yields me satisfaction.  _ I am capable of changing Lena Luthor. _ ) I’m not sure if she notices the tear that is falling down her face, and it takes all my willpower to abstain from gathering her in my arms, to tell her I’m sorry that I just did this to her. 

 

“Why can’t you just leave me alone? Haven’t you already messed with my life enough?”  _ She doesn’t mean it. She’s hurting, she’s not watching what she says.  _ Or maybe Lena is fully aware of what she’s saying. Maybe she’s trying to hurt me, to drive me away, back me into a corner, to barrage me with accusing glares and loaded words that chip away at my confidence in this matter, until I have nothing left to say. Whatever the case may be, I’m simply angered. Once again, some stowed away narcissism emerges from with me, bubbling in my head. Once again, I find myself thinking that I’m selfish for feeling this way, for wanting her to need me, for her to just  _ give in already. _ I find myself wishing she would stop fighting it, to let me just hold her in my arms and tell her it’s going to be okay, because I’m here for her. But it’s like she doesn’t know that, it’s like she’s refusing to know that. 

 

And it makes me inexplicably angry.    
  


“Why can’t  _ you just let me be a part of your life? _ Why do you do this to yourself, for Christ’s sake Lena. You can’t blame this one anyone, not the guides, not the other kids, not even Lex. Whatever is happening here is because of you. _ It’s your fault. _ ” I don’t filter my words, I just let out an angry huff of air and settle into the silence, my eyes searching her face too quickly, too eagerly, for a reaction.

 

It’s common knowledge in the world of foster homes. You don’t blame the victim. 

 

But I did. I put the blame on Lena.

 

She knows this all too well.

 

When she opens her mouth, she doesn’t say anything at first. She closes it again, and I can see her jaw clench, hard. She’s mad, and she’s trying not to act out on it, whether with words or actions (which is admirable, it’s more than I can say for myself.) She finally speaks, her voice low and quavering.

 

“Don’t you  _ dare _ talk about Lex like that. You don’t know him! I do!” I am overridden with guilt. Of course Lena would want to remember Lex as she knew him, before everything went to shit and she was thrown into this life. Who wouldn’t never let go of the good things?

 

“He’s  _ gone _ Lena. He’s not coming back, so why,  _ why _ , are you letting him do this to you?” My wonder is genuine. I couldn’t fathom why Lena would want to live like this, constantly under the shadow of her brother’s doings. I’ve met enough people in my life to know that one can be their own person, no matter who they’re related to. I know, I know it for a fact, that Lena didn’t have to live like this. I take a step forward, keeping my eyes steadily trained on hers, looking for who knows what at this point. Hurt? Betrayal? Brokenness? 

 

“ _ Stop it! _ Lex has nothing to do with this!” She manages to both scream and whimper out the words. To sound both furious and let down at the same time. I’m playing a dirty game, but it’s the only way.

 

_ Never blame the victim…  _

 

“You’re right, it’s you. It’s always been you.” ( _ Whoops.)  _ The first step I had taken towards her had progressed to many steps, and she has no choice but to move back with me. I have her in the corner, just like the last time. History has a way of repeating itself. The two inches that I have on her are to my advantage, I am towering over her, and Lena is looking up at me. I feel like a playground bully, with my face close to hers, the words that slip off my tongue are hurtful and accusing, all while I’m watching her slowly crumble, the tears spilling faster and faster from her eyes, her breath becoming shakier.

 

It’s the way the tears hang to her eyelashes, parallel to how morning dew clings to bright green grass, the color of her eyes, it’s the way all of this comes together that brings me to the conclusion that I don’t like playing dirty. Lena Luthor doesn’t deserve this.

 

She’s been fairly quiet through the whole ordeal, in terms of keeping herself together. If it were me in this situation, I know that I would have been in tears as soon as an accusing glare was sent my way. Lena is strong, but this I already knew. What I wasn’t aware of, however, is just how much she had been holding back. Little things about a person, they’re the things that tell you everything you need to know. Lena’s resilience, her determination to remain as mechanic and icy as possible in the God forbidden place, was all I needed to know that she could only keep up the act for so long. A person can only be strong for so long.

 

“ It’s this _ damn name.  _ Everyone sees me as  _ him _ . I’m  _ not _ …”

 

The tiny sob breaks my heart into many pieces. I don’t think I’ve ever heard something being released that was so pent up for so long (and this is coming from someone whose sister came out to her.) In this corner, every detail is in high definition. In this corner, I am pressed close to her, too close for both of our comfort (but at least one of us doesn’t mind that.) I can feel her chest heaving, like that one sob left her beyond breathless, her entire body quivers, and my entire body aches with guilt. I am her distress, I am her hurt.

 

I’ll be the reason why she’ll feel whole again ( _ I promise to you, Lena.) _

 

I want to apologize and be on my way, but apologies are admittance to doing something wrong, and I don’t want Lena to think that that’s what this is. That me taking to her was nothing but a mistake, and that I’m sorry. I’m not sorry. 

 

I’m sad, sad that she’s not seeing herself the way I see her. As someone who is just that,  _ someone _ .  _ My someone. _ The one that I can talk to, the one that I can unload my worries on, the one that I can tell my past and my secrets. The one who I can get to know.

 

I’m definitely overthinking this. I’m daydreaming about a girl that I can probably never have, a girl that I just emotionally terrorized in the dusty corner of a shambled foster home in Detroit.

 

I think that I’ve already been proven that good things to happen to me.

 

So why am I still standing here? Why am I putting so much effort into this.

 

_ Because I don’t want her to feel like me. _

 

I take my left hand, and raise to the side of Lena’s head. My thumb gently swipes a runaway tear. I try to see past her eyes, but they’re too blurry.

 

“Lena, can’t you see? I’ve never thought of you like him. Why don’t you trust me?”

 

I’m only now aware that I’ve been shedding tears of my own.

 

“But that’s the whole problem. You’re  _ different _ . I don’t know how to deal with that.” My mind instantly becomes mush. My thoughts are the buzz of white static. My heart jumps in my throat, and for a minute, I can’t say anything. For a minute, I don’t want to say anything.

 

I want to leave it at this confession, I want to turn away and make her  _ learn _ on her own how to deal with it,

 

but at the same time… 

 

I take Lena’s face into both of my hands. My thumbs instinctively start to rub gentle circles into her cheeks, something that my mother used to do to me when I was younger whenever I found myself feeling down. My eyes are blurry too this time, but I never lose focus of her, and we are both simply peering; the earth meets the sky.

 

“Let me teach you.”

 

I watch as her eyes close. My face is so, so close to hers, her breath is hot. While she’s busy watching her eyelids, I bring my head down, and press my forehead into hers. I feel her breaths becoming shorter, heavier. In this corner, Lena’s heart rate picks up, beating faster, faster. My fingers feel tingly, my thumbs are electric on her skin. I close my own eyes, and my lips automatically part, the tiniest bit. I don’t think I mean to take it this far, my intentions were never to be this close, so close now that our noses are pressing together, and the static in my head is louder, and Lena’s skin is sending numbing electric pulses to my brain, which is clearly the reason I feel the  _ absolute slightest bit _ of Lena’s lips on my own, and that’s when I am shoved away, my face now miles away in comparison to how close it was just moments ago.

 

“No. Get away from me.  _ I don’t need you! _ ” She turns on her heels and heads directly upstairs, because she must’ve meant what she said.

 

She doesn’t need me. Not in that way.

 

I feel rejected, although there was nothing between us before to give me an excuse to feel this way. How do I even describe what happened? What compulsed me to get so close, to have so much confidence in myself? What assured me that the feeling was mutual? 

 

Absolutely nothing. 

 

“Lena!” I try to reach for her shoulder, but she’s already at the stairs.

 

“Leave me alone!” I’m not even halfway up the stairs yet, and I can hear her voice drift from down the hall. I go up the rest of the stairs three at a time, in an attempt to catch up with her.

 

It’s too late. I hear the distinctive slam of her door, one that I am unfortunately familiar with.

 

_ ‘I don’t need you.’ _

 

Of course she doesn’t need me. She’s Lena Luthor. She’s survived a heartless mother, an indifferent father, a murderous brother, and who knows how many years in this place (and how am I supposed to change anything?) And of course I’m a fool. Utterly foolish and stupid to think that she would open up to me. Someone who’s had life handed to them their whole life, someone who falls for someone much too easily, someone as naive as me. 

 

Someone who’s a girl like me, and Lena probably doesn’t even give me a second thought when she goes about her day, hell, she probably doesn’t even swing that way. I wish I could turn back time, and stop myself from getting so close. Stop myself before the adrenaline got the better of me, and before I was too deep in her cucumber scent, before I was too lost in her eyes, and especially before I ghosted my lips across hers, because fireworks are exploding behind my eyelids now, and not in a good way. It hurts like hell, and the colors are overwhelming, but I want more, and I can’t have more, because she’s Lena Luthor.

 

I touch my fingers to my lips. The heat is gone, my fingers are cold, my my face is red hot from shame and humiliation. Once again, I find myself on the other side of her door (the wrong side) wishing that something,  _ everything _ , was different.

 

_ I’m just me. _

 

My fingertips become sticky, and I find that I have accidentally reopened the small wounds at the bottom of my palms, ones that have become a permanent fixture since meeting Lena. I decide that in this moment, the pain is welcome. It takes my mind of her, if only for a moment. I don’t want her in my thoughts, taking root and growing like an invasive species, I don’t want her breath tickling my face, I don’t want her to be the one to make the blood rush to my head, I don’t want her to be my fireworks.

 

Not when I’m nothing to her.

 

Not when I’m just me.

 

//Lena POV//

 

I can’t believe I let myself cry in front of Kara. 

 

This entire time she’s been here, my walls have been tested as rigorously as they ever have. She keeps breaking them down. I can essentially feel the heavy stone blocks falling from on high, shattering on the ground. I thought I could still work with the walls I had left. That is, until she brought up Lex.

 

I still love him, despite all the things he did. It disgusts me that I do; he’s insane and he’s a murderer. But he was a loving brother before that. And even before that he was a lonely boy who wanted a type of love his mother could never give him. Despite everything, he cared for me and loved me. He treated me as an equal. He made me feel human. Maybe that’s why I love him. Maybe that’s why I always get so angry when people ridicule him.  _ Maybe that’s why I don’t want Kara coming into my life. She’d be taking away the significance of the only thing that keeps me loyal to Lex.  _

 

I don’t realize I’ve backed up until I’m trapped in the corner of the common room (the vacuum’s still running, whining in the background, but I can barely hear it over the rush of blood in my ears), Kara towering over me. She’s furious, so when she says the words, I shrink away instead of leaning closer as I always (Really? Always?) thought I would when those words were uttered.

 

“It’s always been you.”

 

I didn’t even realize I wanted to hear those words. But now that she’s spoken them, I want to hear that phrase again. But when Kara’s not seething, not when she’s weaponizing my memories of Lex. Not when it sounds like she hates me. The amount of venom in her voice rivals any amount I’ve had in mine when I’ve talked to her (which is an impressive feat in and of itself). I don’t want her to be this angry. This side of Kara Danvers scares me. What ever happened to the little girl who drew random girls and just wanted to talk to me?  _ How is it that I’m finding myself wishing for the one thing I was praying would cease to exist less than a week ago?  _ That’s when I’m suddenly aware that I’m crying. My walls (who even knew there were any left?) crumble down the rest of the way. I feel my breath turning shaky.  _ Okay, Lena, stop. You’re a Luthor. Luthors are strong. Luthors don’t cry. Luthor….  _ Silent tears roll down my cheeks, but do everything I can to make sure my voice doesn’t betray me. 

 

“It’s this _ damn name.  _ Everyone sees me as  _ him _ .” I don’t think Kara needs a clarifier as to who  _ he _ is; she’s made it abundantly clear that she has no tolerance when it comes to  _ Lex Luthor _ . I can’t let her continue thinking about him (and consequently me, since of  _ course _ we’re the same person, despite not even being truly related) like this. “I’m  _ not _ …” I am cut off by my own sob.  _ So much for not letting my voice betray me. _ My walls have crumbled, their dust has blown away. I refuse to look Kara in the eye, but I won’t look down at the ground either. Instead, I stare past her, my face set; the only things that show my emotion are the tears rolling down my face and my convulsive gasps for breath.

 

All of a sudden, Kara’s voice softens. Her expression shifts from an accusatory glare to a tender, affectionate gaze. I see her glance at my tear-stained face. Then, with a natural confidence and concern, she reaches up and cups my cheek with her hand. She ghosts her thumb over my cheekbone, wiping away a tear. The contact sends shivers through my body; my head snaps up to meet her eyes. Her countenance has done a complete 180. Her eyes are glowing warmly behind her glasses, her eyebrows are drawn together. I see the crinkle in the middle of her forehead, the same crinkle my eyes are drawn to (more than I’d like to admit). I’ve noticed it there when she’s concentrating, when she’s worried, when she’s lying, when she had her seizure-like dream that night….  _ Have I really paid attention to her this much? _ I’m scared of that answer, so i push the question as far to the back of my mind as it can go. I try to ignore my heart fluttering like a caged bird.  _ I don’t want her pity…. _

 

_ But do I want her comfort? _

 

A tear rolls down Kara’s face. Her voice is soft, imploring, when she speaks: “Lena, can’t you see? I’ve never thought of you like him. Why don’t you trust me?” 

 

I want to trust her. I want to lean into her touch. This is the first time I’ve felt this since Lex. But even then, there’s something more.  _ She’s different from everyone else _ .

 

“But that’s the whole problem,” I say. Tears still trace paths down my face. “You’re  _ different _ . I don’t know how to deal with that.” 

 

Kara tilts her head the tiniest bit, as if she’s trying to understand what I said. Or maybe she’s just struck by how strangely I’m acting. I  _ am _ showing much more emotion than I normally do…  _ but is it so abnormal with Kara? Hasn’t she already seen all these emotions I didn’t know I was capable of feeling, the ones I pressed so deep down I forgot–? _

 

I’m suddenly pulled out of my thoughts by both of Kara’s hands cupping both sides of my face. Her grip is gentle, caring, but at the same time firm; I have no choice but to look her straight in the eyes (not that that’s a problem…). As she leans in closer (also not a problem), she starts rubbing light circles over my tear-stained cheeks. Her touch is light as a feather, and all I can think of is an angel’s wings brushing over my face, guarding over me.  _ Maybe Kara is my angel….  _ My heart almost stops. It feels like my chest is about to implode. I want to lean forward, feel her breath mix with mine….

 

_ Yes, _ I decide.  _ I do want her comfort. _

 

It’s as if she hears my thoughts as she continues to caress my cheeks, she very nearly begs: “Let me teach you.”

 

In that instant, my heart fails me. My brain short-circuits. I hear my breath catch, hear blood roaring in my ears while my heart feels, once again, like it’s stopped. Kara has moved just a  _ tiny _ bit closer; I wouldn’t have noticed unless we were as close together as we are. Her forehead is touching mine. If my brain wasn’t getting fried before, it certainly is now. I feel the hot huff of her breath on my upper lip and  _ shit, is that her lips touching mine? _ Just the thought of that (even if it’s wishful thinking, which I think it is) sends wonderful shivers down my spine. I close my eyes.  _ I could never have anticipated just how much I want to lean forward and collide my lips with hers right now…. _

 

_ Let me teach you. _ I can hear the want in Kara’s voice, the raw  _ need _ to help me (of course I don’t need help!), keep me close, comfort me.  _ And I want it. _

 

Hell, I  _ need _ it.

 

But then the walls of the Luthor mansion rear up before me. All of a sudden, I’m five years old again….

 

_ I was packing my bags after my second week of first-grade classes. The material was easy, so I was focusing on the people. There weren’t many that caught my eye. Except for one young girl. _

 

_ In reality, she was probably older than me, but she was very shy. She had golden-blonde hair that fell in waves a little past her shoulders that always obscured half of her face. I think her name was Sara. She usually wore darker clothes, but that day she was wearing a pale blue, flowered dress. She was very beautiful. _

 

_ She was still sitting at her table, struggling with subtraction, even though everybody else had left. I walked over to her and peeked over her shoulder. Suddenly, she turned around, panic in her eyes as she grabbed my wrist.  _ Wow, she’s fast!  _ I thought. I smiled at her soothingly.  _

 

_ “Do you need help?” I asked, still smiling to show her I wasn’t a threat. She shook her head immediately (too quickly). I smiled. _

 

_ “It’s okay to say you need help. I know you’re smart,” I reassured her. She paused, then nodded her head. I smiled even wider. _

 

_ “Your name’s Sara right?” I asked. She nodded. _

 

_ “And you’re Lena,” she stated with a note in her voice I couldn't quite grasp. _

 

_ “Yeah!” I confirmed enthusiastically. “Hey, do you want to come over to my house? It’s only a couple minutes walk from the school. We can work on subtraction together,” I offered. _

 

_ Sara looked up at me and smiled, grabbing her workbook and putting it in her pink backpack. It was pink with a little yellow bird on the front pocket. _

 

_ “I like your backpack,” I said as we walked out of the school. “What type of bird is that?” _

 

_ She smiled and grabbed my hand as we crossed the street. “It’s a canary.” _

 

_ ~~~ _

 

_ I practically pulled Sara up the pathway to the Luthor mansion. Her mouth was open, her eyes were wide as she stared at the giant house. I paused at the bottom of the steps that led to the giant double oak doors and turned to her. She was looking around with amazement, her grey-blue eyes sparkling, her face flushed from running. It accentuated every freckle on her face. I felt my heart flutter.  _

 

_ “Come on!” I said. “Let’s go inside. I don’t think Lillian – I mean, mom is home yet.” _

 

_ Sara looked confused at my little slip up. _

 

_ “She’s my adoptive mother,” I explained. “I’ve been with the Luthors for about a year.” _

 

_ Sara nodded. She didn’t press any further, for which I am grateful. I suddenly straightened up and smiled widely (I guess I had been frowning). “Let’s go inside!” _

 

_ I threw open the large doors and pulled Sara through, pointing her towards the couch. I ran over to the kitchen and climbed up onto the counter so I could get to the stash of cookies Lillian hid (Lex showed me where they were). I grabbed them and took them over to Sara, who was sitting on the couch politely, gawking at the huge oil painting of Lex and his –  _ our –  _ parents. _

 

_ Sara turned towards me, forehead creased, ignoring the cookies. “Why aren’t you up there?” _

 

_ I stopped dead in my tracks. I tilted my head.  _ There’s always a good explanation for everything.  _ So why couldn’t I think of one? I felt tears start to gather in the corners of my eyes. _

 

_ Sara gasped, quickly started muttering a mantra of “Sorry sorry sorry, I’m so sorry,” and pulled me into a hug. I let the tears fall down onto her shoulder, but I didn’t make any sound. Then Sara pressed a kiss to my neck. _

 

_ I froze. This wasn’t something I was accustomed to. But I didn’t mind it at all. In fact, I actually really liked it. _

 

_ Sara froze too. She pulled back, averted her eyes. She mumbled another “sorry” and reached for her backpack. I quickly grabbed at her hands, taking them in mine. Her eyes still were fixed on my shoes.  _

 

_ “Sara,” I said. She looked up, her eyes wide, this time in fear, not amazement. “It’s okay–” _

 

_ I was cut off by Sara lunging forward and pressing her lips onto mine. I couldn’t respond for a split second, but when I felt that she was about to pull away, I closed my eyes and kissed back. _

 

_ I was actually surprised when Sara pulled back from the kiss. She looked me in the eyes this time. Then she spoke, very softly. _

 

_ “I think I have a crush on you.” _

 

_ This time I initiated the kiss. It was just lips, but I remember floating on clouds of bliss…. _

 

_ Until the front doors swung open and Lillian stormed in. _

 

_ “ _ Lena! _ ” she shrieked.  _

 

_ Sara and I both jerked away from each other. I willed her with my eyes to run. Thank God she took the hint. She grabbed her pink canary backpack and ran out the front door. _

 

_ “ _ Lena! _ ” Lillian shrieked again. “How  _ dare _ you? What–! I–!”  _

 

_ “I was just kissing her,” I mumbled.  _

 

_ “ _ Exactly! _ ” Lillian snapped. “You were kissing  _ her! _ ” She made an indignant sound. “You’re a disgrace to this family.” _

 

_ If only the world had heard those words. _

 

_ “I don’t see why–,” I began, but I was cut off. _

 

_ “ _ You’re a disgrace to this family! _ ” screamed Lillian, and she brought her palm down across my face. _

 

_ I ran to my room after that and locked myself in. I didn’t even open the door for Lex when he came home. He tried to comfort me through the door, but I just buried my head in my pillows. _

 

_ I didn’t find out until the following Monday that Sara and her family had moved all the way to Starling City.  _

 

My eyes fly open. I’m trapped in the corner of this shitty Detroit foster home by Kara Danvers, and  _ she almost kissed me. _ I push her backwards.

 

“No. Get away from me.  _ I don’t need you! _ ” I scream at her. I turn on my heel and rush towards the stairs. As I start to climb them, I see Kara starting to move after me, arm outstretched.

 

“Lena!”

 

“Leave me alone!” I cry, streaking down the hall to my room. I slam the door shut and lock it with a reverberation that is probably heard throughout the whole house. I run to the hole I made in the wall and drive my knife in with an anger and strength that I didn’t know I had.

 

But who am I angry at? Kara? Sara? Lillian? 

 

Myself.

 

I glance at the knife in the wall, still quivering.  _ Wouldn’t it be easier if I had instead driven that blade into my brain or my heart (whichever one is making me feel this way)....  _

 

I remove the knife from the wall, placing the tip of the blade gently on my temple. I rotate it around and I feel the warm drip of blood falling down. It almost feels like a tear….

 

I put the knife down. I study the dark crimson staining its tip. It reminds me of a deal with the Devil: it’s my blood signature. A promise for another day.

 

_ But not today, Lena, not today…. _


	10. day terrors

//Lena POV//

 

The sun beats through my windows.  _ I thought I closed those damn curtains. _ Then my brain kicks in for real.  _ Kara. Kara opened them.  _ Dammit, Kara.

 

My eyes wander over to the knife I dropped beside the hole in the wall last night. The sun is glinting off it, making it look like some pinprick of heavenly fire. I slowly push back the sheets and slip my feet onto the cold floor. My toes curl as I walk over to the knife. I pick it up and I look at the now-brown bloodstain on the sharp end.  _ Not today,  _ I promise myself _. Not yet. _ I drive the knife into the hole in the wall. 

 

I’m about to turn away and get dressed when I realize just how deep into the wall the blade is. It must be close to breaking through to the other side. I try to remember why I even started this little project. I can’t seem to drag anything to the surface (maybe it’s better that way). Despite this, I still feel compelled to finish it. Even if I ran away from Kara yesterday. I slam my head against the wall (the solid section). I don’t even care if Kara hears. I can’t seem to care about anything other than being able to just  _ see _ her. I push back the tears (they still fall) as I curl up against the one thing between me and the girl who shook apart my world.

 

I slowly realize that the me from a year ago (hell, probably even a month ago) would have been furious. She would have stormed into Kara’s room and threatened her, scared her into keeping her distance. The me from a month ago would have threatened to use her pocketknife on Kara instead of herself.

 

I lift my head up just an inch or so, so my eyes are level with the handle of the blade in the wall. My eyesight is blurred by the tears gathering (and falling) from my eyelashes. Angrily, I huff out a breath and wipe some of the tears away. I sit up straighter, reach out with my right hand, grab the knife. I slowly turn it around in my hand. I pull down the neckline of my shirt with my left hand, baring the pale skin covering my heart. I’m not even seeing anything as I bring the still-bloodstained tip of the knife to my chest; my gaze is trained on something past the wall, outside the window, something that I’m not sure is even out there for me to look at.  _ Kara. _ I start to twist the blade above my heart just the tiniest bit.  _ Kara. _ I twist it the other way.  _ Kara. _ I feel a miniature lightning storm bloom across that tiny patch of skin.  _ Kara.  _ I feel the warm blood trace a trail down my chest, down to the top of by bra.  _ Kara. _ I close my eyes; I see her tender face leaning closer to mine, ready to press our lips gently together…  _ Kara! _

 

My eyes bolt open, opening the floodgates to a new river of tears. I look down at the trail of deep crimson contrasting my fair skin. Hand shaking, I lift the knife away from my chest. It takes me a while to remember what I told myself  _ not even _ three whole minutes ago. 

 

_ Today, something about today…. _

 

_ Not today. Goddamn it Lena, not today. _

 

I choke back a sob and drop the knife to the floor.  _ How does Kara manage elicit so many emotions from me with just her existence? _

 

I cry for about five minutes. It’s the longest I’ve cried in more than six years. I want to say it makes me feel better, but it doesn’t. It just makes me want to punch (or maybe stab) myself for being so weak. I hear my mother’s voice:  _ You’re better than this, Lena. _ It’s the one thing she was ever right about. I straighten my back into a sitting position, angrily rub my eyes, and reach over to the knife. I pick it up and start chipping away at the drywall again. I don’t really know why I’m still doing this. Kara’s already made my life hell. She’s broken my walls, forced my to expose my emotions to the outside world. She’s made my heart flutter, made me feel scared, made my cry. She’s made me into a completely different person in the span of just two weeks.

 

Maybe that’s the entire  _ reason _ I want to break through to her room. Maybe I want a glimpse into the life, the thoughts, the rudimentary wants and needs of this girl who’s made me feel as good about myself as Lex did. 

 

It’s weird, comparing someone so bright and cheerful and  _ happy _ to, well, Lex. It’s even hard for  _ me _ to remember sometimes that Lex was once all these things…

 

~~~

 

I was young, a little over four years old. It was my second night staying at the Luthor house. I was still wary of trusting anyone in this new environment, despite Lex’s hospitality and excitement at my arrival. I mostly stayed in my room those first couple of days. But that evening (it was a Friday, so Lex didn’t have school the next day), Lex coaxed me out of my room and into the living room. There were two comfy, high-backed chairs facing each other over a small, round table. And on that table, there was a chess set. 

 

Lex guided me over to one of the chairs, the one in front of the black pieces. He sat across from me. He smiled at me hopefully. 

 

“Do you know how to play?” he asked, bubbling with excitement. I shook my head, almost scared to disappoint him. But he just smiled again. “Okay, so this is a pawn…”

 

Lex explained the game thoroughly in less than two minutes. I completely understood how to play, even if I didn’t play well; that first game, Lex beat me in ten moves. But over the next seven or so hours, that number got larger. I picked up strategies from Lex; I started being able to read what he was going to do. At one seventeen the next morning, we ended in a stalemate. And then, an hour and eleven minutes later, Lex uttered the word  _ check _ . I responded, moving my queen, with  _ checkmate _ . 

 

At first, Lex didn’t say anything. His eyes widened as he looked at the board. I thought he was going to get mad at me; I sank deeper into the cushions of the chair. But then Lex’s face broke into a wide smile and he reached across the board and hugged me. 

 

“Great job Lena!” he whispered in my ear. “No-one’s beaten me at chess in at least a year, not even Mother! You have so much potential!”

 

I blushed and simply hugged him back.

 

~~~

 

I was still young, about six, maybe six and a half, so there had been ample time to allow Lillian’s so-called chastising about my “sinful relationship” with Sara to push my memories of her to the deep, dark recesses of my mind (to this day, I call it brainwashing). Despite this, or maybe because of it, I never felt the need to have any friends, of a special nature or otherwise. I turned down invitations to sit at lunch tables, to go to birthday parties, to even say hello. People got the message quick enough. I wanted to be left alone. Sure, I ended up feeling lonely at school, but as soon as school ended, I would wait outside the sixth grade classrooms for Lex. As soon as he stepped out of his class, he would wave wildly to me and I would blush at his antics, thinking,  _ you’re making yourself look silly, Lex. _ His goofy smile would change to a genuine one by the time he walked over to me. He would take my hand and we would walk back to the mansion. We’d race to the double doors (Lex let me win sometimes, but I got mad at him for not pushing me and making me better, so he smiled and ran faster the next time) and, if Lillian wasn’t home, we’d race all the way to his room. As soon as we shut the door to his room, I’d tell him about my day and the people I observed. Lex always smiled and laughed at all the right places, and then, every single time I finished my eager, long-winded reports of the day, he told me I was destined to be a spy one day. And, every single time he told me I would make a great spy one day, I would smile proudly and snuggle up next to him in his bed as he did his homework, just content to be in his presence. 

 

There was one day that was different. The day started off pretty much the same: Lex woke me up at seven thirty, throwing open the giant curtains to let the bright sunshine in through the wide, floor-to-ceiling window; he made me toast with butter and jelly (and sometimes chocolate and peanut butter if Lillian wasn’t in the kitchen yet) and sat with me while he ate his oatmeal; we went into Lex’s room again and played chess until quarter of nine (we usually got a couple games in); we packed our backpacks and he took my hand as we walked to school; he dropped my off by the first grade classrooms, tousled my hair, and walked off to the sixth grade classes; I sat in the back of the classroom and watch the people file in, arranging themselves into little cliques; I suffered through the teacher’s extensive, slow explanations about things I already knew about; I met Lex at recess, and we sat against the (sunny, of course) wall of the school playing chess on his computer; I beat him one, he beat me once and we were at a stalemate when the teachers called us all in; I ate my lunch of a banana-chocolate-peanut-butter sandwich alone in the corner of the lunch room; I suffered through more of the teacher’s high-pitched voice as I worked five pages ahead in my math book and stared at the boy and girl sitting next to each other as they passed notes under the table and giggled whenever they glanced at each other; I waited for Lex, he waved, grabbed my hand, we walked home; we raced to the double doors and threw them open.

 

And we were met with Lillian’s –  _ mom’s _ – severe scowl.

 

“Lena,” she said in a dangerously low tone. “Let go of Lex’s hand.”

 

I didn’t move. It seemed so silly to me that Lillian  _ (Mom, Lena, call her Mom) _ didn’t want me and Lex to do normal sibling things. I tightened my fingers around Lex’s hand and he tightened his fingers around mine. I bowed my head timidly while hiding a smile.

 

Lill –  _ Mother – _ drew herself up taller. Her voice dropped even quieter. “Lex, honey, let go of her hand.”

 

“Why?” Lex immediately asked, rubbing small circles on my thumb.

 

Mother (I got it that time!) clenched her jaw. “ _ Because _ ,” she said through gritted teeth, “we have a  _ guest _ and it’s always good to look your  _ best _ for a  _ visitor _ .”

 

Lex raised an eyebrow. “You’re right, Mother,” he said. My heart dropped. I loosened my grip on Lex’s hand, surprised when he just tightened his. “I should go put on my suit!” He pushed past Mother and dragged me into his room. I glanced back at our mother as Lex turned the corner into the hallway: her gaze (which, of course, was murderous) was trained on me; her lips were pursed into a thin line, reminding me of the simple yellow face on the  _ How Are You Today? _ chart taped on every person’s desk in my class (but in this case, it looked less like  _ Okay! _ and more like  _ Murderous! _ ); her footfalls as she walked into the living room sounded exactly like the sharp, angry  _ tick _ s of a clock attached to a bomb ( _ I hope to God I’m not here when the clock reaches zero _ ). I felt like I was standing in front of a firing squad for just an instant….

 

The moment was gone. Once I was out of her line of sight, I let out a breath I never realized I was holding. I stumbled, but Lex grabbed me by the elbow and managed to guide me into his room. I flopped down onto the bed like a ragdoll as soon as he shut the door. I buried my face in my pillow as Lex changed quickly into his grey suit with his favorite lime green tie. He placed a hand on my shoulder when he was ready.

 

“Do you want to come with me?” he asked. “You don’t have to. But you can still come if you want to. But you’ll probably be bored anyway….” He trailed off, unsure of himself. 

 

I turn towards him. “I’ll come with you,” I said. He looked surprised. “Lex,” I said. “I need to show her I’m not scared.” Lex just nodded and took my hand.

 

We walked into the living room together. Mother was sitting in one of the high-backed chairs that stood in front of the giant portrait of the Luthors (it still didn’t have me). There was a man sitting on the couch with his back to us. Lex cleared his throat and Mother turned towards him with a triumphant smirk, only for her eyes to narrow into a scowl as she saw me. Nevertheless, she gestured for Lex and I to take seats on either side of her. Lex dragged me over to the chair next to him instead. It was then I got a glance of the man sitting on our couch.

 

Mother introduced him as John Corben (what I didn’t know at the time is that he would be the one my mother hired to assassinate the witnesses of Lex’s murder). He shook hands with Lex and then shot a predatory grin at me. Lex bristled, but didn’t say anything. I glanced over at my mother; she merely smiled at Corben’s actions. I felt a sting at the corner of my eyes.  _ I will not cry _ , I told myself.

 

Corben started talking about “business” with my mother and Lex. I tuned it out, partially because it was just  _ boring _ , partially because I wanted nothing to do with my mother’s schemes, and partially because I was still trying not to cry. This was made harder, what with Corben glancing at me like his next meal  _ every time he wasn’t being talked to directly _ . This went on for about twenty minutes before I stood up swiftly.

 

“Lena, whatever is the matter?” my mother asked in the most faux-concerned voice I have heard to this day. That’s when the tears started to fall. Lex started to stand and comfort me, but Lillian grabbed his wrist in her iron (titanium) clutch. 

 

“Come now, Lena,” she said. I would have been able to keep myself together if her voice was sharp or condescending, but  _ no, _ she  _ kept using that faux-concerned voice. _ “You mustn’t get upset over such trivial matters as business relations.”

 

I screamed at her. No words, just hate and anger and fear. As I turned and ran towards my room, I saw Lex struggling to get away from Lillian’s hold, but to no avail. I slammed the door to my room loud enough that they heard it in the living room. And even as I buried my face in my pillow, I heard Lillian’s mocking laughter ringing through the house.

 

~~~

 

With Lillian’s cackle still ringing through my head, I stab my way through the plaster. Dropping my knife, I press my eye to the hole. I can see the edge of Kara’s bed. I draw back and widen the hole with the knife. Peering back, I notice that her bed is empty. Her entire room is. 

 

Sighing, I stand up, brushing the white dust off my hands and shirt. I walk over to my dresser, grab a new outfit, and quickly put it on; I don’t want to see Kara while I’m wearing incriminating evidence. 

 

But I do want to see Kara. I realize that now. _I want to see Kara and apologize for being a complete bitch._ _And maybe, just maybe, kiss her as I should have done in the first place._ I shiver at the recognition. _She’s making me feel loved. And I want to be loved._

 

I throw open my door. This is the first time I’ve felt sure of myself in a long time. I know exactly what I want to do: find Kara, kiss her, apologize, keep her close for the rest of time.  _ I’m ready to feel again. _ I walk quickly past the other girls milling around in the common area on our floor, rushing quietly down the stairs into the common room. There are a couple people already loitering on the couches and chairs. My eyes search desperately for the blonde hair, the glasses,  _ anything _ of Kara. As I arrive at the bottom of the stairs, I see her. My heart plummets.

 

Kara’s sitting close,  _ too close _ , to a boy on the corner couch. He’s too attractive for comfort; he’s tall, even while he’s sitting down; he’s got clear blue eyes (not as stunning as hers); his brown hair is admittedly well-styled. He is, objectively, attractive. And that’s a problem, because Kara’s sitting facing him; I can see her profile from where I am. She’s staring at her lap, chewing her bottom lip. The boy is inches away from her face; their thighs are basically touching. Then, suddenly, she places both her hands on the side of the boy’s face, turns his head so they’re looking onto each other’s eyes, and crashes her lips against his.

 

I almost break out into tears. I would be able to go yank Kara away from the boy and yell at him if  _ he  _ was the one who crashed  _ his _ lips against  _ hers _ , but Kara initiated the kiss. Kara initiated a kiss with a guy she probably doesn’t even know the  _ morning _ after she almost kissed  _ me _ . I want to punch myself, but I’m in enough pain already I think I’m covered. 

 

This is exactly why I ran away last night. This is why walls are so important. This is why I’m  _ not allowed to love _ . God, was I really so stupid as to believe that this could end any other way? This is how I’ve lived for eight years.  _ Why did I think change would help me? _

 

I turn and run up the stairs, ignoring the weird looks I get from the people who saw me at the bottom of the stairs, who saw me rush out of my room, who saw Lena Luthor get flustered by two people kissing. I couldn’t give fewer shits about them. They can all burn in Hell. In fact, I hope they do, along with Kara and that fuckboy she’s with.  _ Not Kara. _ Yes, Kara.  _ No, never Kara.  _ No, never Kara.

 

God. Damn. It.

 

I slam the door to my room, angry once again at everything. But most of all, I’m angry at myself. I still have a chink in my armor, a weak spot that Kara will always be able to find. I can try building up my walls again, but what’s the point if Kara’s an atomic bomb?

 

A hot, angry tear slides down my face. I fall onto my bed, curling up into the fetal position (as if that would help; the kicks I’m getting are coming from my head). I almost don’t hear the sound of Kara’s footsteps running up the stairs and into her own room. Her door slams, I hear her heavy breathing from her rush upstairs. But then her breathing becomes even more labored and I hear wheezing. Then the same  _ thud _ I heard the first time Kara had one of these episodes. But this time I don’t go into her room to comfort her. I can’t allow myself to care about her if she’s just going to break my heart. 

 

“Stop! Stop it!” Kara screams. I feel my resolve start to break. She sounds so panicked, so trapped, so desperate. I want to help her. I shake my head.  _ No. You stop. Stop caring. Stop loving. Stop being weak. _

 

Still, it takes everything I have to keep from going over to the next room, taking Kara in my arms, and kissing her until her terror passes when I hear the one, anguished word that leaves her lips, halfway between a prayer and a call:

 

_ “Lena…”  _

 

//Kara POV//

 

_ I’m over it. I’m over it. I’m over it. _

 

I’m definitely not over it. I am quite possibly anything but over it. I assumed that sleep would ebb away my self pity, toss me into one of my nightmares, and leave me defenseless to what would always come next. I was honestly prepared for it, to let the flames engulf me for once, burn away my layers of skin and leave me reborn. I was ready, eager, to become anyone but myself.

 

Sleep only brought me her.

 

She enveloped every crease in my brain. My dreams were set on an infinite loop, always resetting back to its starting point the moment my lips brushed against hers. It was the same every time; I didn’t grow tired of the butterflies in my stomach, my eyes never grew heavy despite the fact that they remained open the whole time so that I could simply look at her for that much longer. My heart never slowed down, beating so fast that I felt like I was on the verge of cardiac arrest, but I never wanted it to slow, no. The process was inexhaustible, I could live in that world forever, if it were for only one change.

 

I wish our lips had collided, I wish that I could feel her face on mine and know taste of her mouth once it met my own. I wish that I could cup her face, cradle her head, and let her know that  _ everything would be okay, because I’m here for you now _ , and not with words, but with passionate action.

 

That’s why I am sitting on my bed, legs numb from sitting cross-legged for far too long, staring blankly out of the single grimy window that is my passage to the outside world (the outside world looks like shit, and this inside world isn’t much better.) I’ve been pondering about last night for far too long, scrutinizing every move both of us made, every word that either of us said has been replaying again and again, reverberating in my eardrums. I’m trying to find out what the hell went wrong, what was it that registered in my brain as a green light to make a move on her.

 

She told me I was different. She didn’t know how to handle me.  _ Well that’s quite the double entendre, Kara, and she probably most definitely was referring to the less preferred meaning. _

 

She’s different too. I think I was (am) drawn to her stubbornness, her coolness, her complete and confident exterior, and I threw all caution to the wind. I didn’t think about the interior, the fright and the fear of falling apart and suppressed emotions that she was scared of letting out. I didn’t think about all the obstacles, the time it would take to make Lena human, to make her feel something again.

 

I’m a fool, I know this is my own fault. I let myself believe that I could handle something that was far too gone. Lena… she’s far too gone for either of our own good. She  _ has  _ to be, otherwise I’ll feel to wrong, too malicious.

 

I admittedly have never made the best decisions when I feel wrong, when I feel unsure and lost.

 

I find myself standing up before I even process my intentions. My legs are tired, both from lack of blood and my general weariness. I open my door, and slowly exit my room, shutting the door firmly behind me. I want to go downstairs, but I find myself fixated on Lena’s door, and I can’t help but to wonder how she’s faring on the other side. I know she’s in there, because while I was busy trying to lose myself to the sound of the wind and people yelling in the streets and distant horns and gunshots, I couldn’t bring myself to ignore the thud I heard on the other side of the wall. It resonated, bounced around my skull louder than the gunshots, and I wanted to phase through the cheap sheetrock wall, I wanted to ask her what was wrong ( _ Lena, how can I make you better? _ )

 

_ Kara you sensitive, clingy, piece of shit. _

 

I can’t afford to care. I didn’t realize that my arm had raised itself, a fist hovering inches within Lena’s door. I didn’t realize that my ear taken it upon itself to press itself up against the door, straining to pick up anything,  _ anything _ , that would give me an excuse to just look at her, listen to her speak, get lost in her eyes. 

 

I could knock. I could just be a friendly face, another kid in the house just wanting to check in. I could play dirty, no matter how impure it made me feel; no matter how vulnerable it left her. In this moment, I felt so unlike myself, so willing to do anything it takes to get so close to her one more time (and another time after that, until it was  _ our _ thing) that I recoil from the door like it’s something as disgusting as a corpse. I feel predatory, and it feels wrong.

 

Far too many times since I’ve arrived here, I’ve hated myself. I’ve hated myself for being the only one left. I’ve hated myself for being so selfish. And I hate myself for letting Lena make me feel this way.

 

I hate the way she can turn the tables so easily. I hate the way she carries herself like she is better than anyone else in this place. I hate the way she let’s herself be overshadowed by a name that is associated with such malevolence, a name that is by no means her title. I hate the way that she’s demonstrated multiple times that she needs help, that she needs someone to fix her, yet she can’t figure out how to let someone into her life. I hate the way that she thinks I would hurt her. 

 

I hate how she makes me feel like I’m needed.

 

I hate how she makes me feel like  _ I need her _ .

 

I’m still standing at her door, my eyes haven’t left the floor. I’m nervously chewing the inside of my cheek, my tongue being overpowered by the metallic taste of my own blood. The fist that was ready to knock on her door is now unclenched, and I busy it by fidgeting with my glasses. 

 

I can’t let myself fall for this, I can’t afford to care if this is how it’s going to be.

 

I turn on my heels, my feet doing all the thinking, and walk briskly down the stairs. I figure that maybe interacting with anyone but Lena will take her off my mind, and besides, it would be good to get to make some friends in this place. I’ve been too busy either wallowing in my own self pity, being terrorized by my memories, or too caught up in Lena drama, to actually take the time to make myself a known presence in this place.  _ Time for a change. _ I make my entrance into the common room, my strides confident, but my head down. I look up for a moment to see where I may be able to situate myself, and I take a seat on the couch. If it were up to me, I would’ve grabbed a chair suited for one person, but the common room is always packed in the mornings, kids bright and cheery, or kids wishing to never see the inside of this place again, always milling about, waiting for breakfast and chores. The only open spot that I could see was on one of the couches. There was only one boy sitting on the far left end, so I situate myself as far on the other end as possible. I wasn’t familiar with this boy, and I wasn’t exactly ready to be. My eyes burn into my lap, as if there is some intriguing pattern or hidden message written across my thighs. I pick at my thumb nervously, my hands itching to do something. My hands shoot up to needlessly adjust my glasses, but the movement was so uncalled for and jerky that I accidentally send my glasses flying off my face. Momentarily blinded and having no idea where they went, I scrunch my face tightly in hopes that squinting hard enough will cure my poor vision so I could just find them. Casting my insecurity and dignity aside, I drop on all fours, feeling with my hands in front of me (yes, I’m  _ that _ blind.) Through extremely narrowed eyes, I spot something in front of me, and hurriedly lunge at it.  _ Yes! _ My hand curls around the object, and I realize that this definitely isn’t my glasses.  _ No!  _ I uncurl my fingers from the object as fast as humanly possible and shuffle back from whatever it is. I squint harder.  _ Is that a… yep. _ My eyes follow the shoe to the leg, the leg to the torso, and the torso to the head of the boy who was sitting on the opposite side of the couch. I literally could not make out a single feature on his face, so I only hope that he’s taking this whole encounter lightheartedly. I don’t need to see my own face to know that I am flustered, the heat is rising from my cheeks, hotter than anything I’ve felt (aside from what  _ she _ makes me feel.) I pull myself up into sitting position, but there’s really no coming back from what just happened. We’re just staring at each other, (I think?), so I attempt to stutter out an apology. “O-oh geez. I-I’m really sorry about that. I can’t see a darn thing without my glasses, which is why I grabbed your foot. I thought they were my glasses, which obviously proves that I can’t see without my-” The boy puts a finger to my lip, which certainly gets my attention, and promptly shuts me up.

 

“Do you always ramble this much when you’re trying to explain something?” His voice is gentle, and even though the words that come out sound like something Lena would say to try to cut me down, I detect no viciousness in his voice, only playfulness. It’s different. It’s nice to not be talked down to. Still, I can’t help but furrow my brow, and whether it’s out of confusion or suspiciousness, I’m not sure. He’s closer now, but I still can’t make out any distinguishing figures.  _ His hair is brown and…he has a nose.  _ I let out a huff of air through my nostrils. At least he has a nose.

 

“Your finger is still on my mouth.” I feel like  _ someone  _ needed to say it. I figured he would just take his finger off my mouth, and we’d be all set here, but no. He left it, and it was warm on my lips, and my lips are quivering because I never really learned how to handle human contact, and my vision is like 20/1000 so I can’t see shit, but I can feel the heat pooling off my cheeks, my neck, and my forehead, in waves. He won’t stop looking at me and I feel myself growing self conscious, I feel like I’m being looked at under a microscope, and his damn finger is still on my mouth… 

 

_ Ok, this is just outright weird.  _ I had already brought up the fact that he hasn’t moved his finger, and he still hasn’t moved his finger, and I can feel myself getting weird about it, and I want his finger off so I wiggle my lips really awkwardly, the details of his finger becoming hyper-realistic on my squirming mouth. His finger is soft, and there’s a small callus on the tip, like he plays guitar. I swear I can feel the ridges of his fingerprint, the heat of his finger melding my lips into them. He laughs gently, and he removes his finger, but by no means quickly. He draws his finger down the corner of my mouth, pausing there before lifting his finger from my mouth and booping it on my nose.  _ What the…  _

 

“You’re cute, and once you get these back on you, I hope you think the same of me.” My glasses emerge from his hands, and I grab them, almost desperately, and shove them back onto my face. The world comes into focus. He is unarguably handsome, He indeed has a nose, and it fits his well-defined face perfectly. His eyes are sparkling blue, similar to mine (they’re not as crisp, not as mesmerizing as  _ hers _ .) He looked around my age, and he’s growing stubble on his chin and above his upper lip. His hair is tousled and his face is boyish, like he hasn’t really grown up in the past few years. I think I’ve been staring too long, trying to take in too many details, trying to make too many comparisons. He taps a finger under my chin, and I snap out of my daze, but my wondering eyes become suspicious. A guy this attractive doesn’t just does this. It’s just a thing that doesn’t happen. 

 

“What are you doing?” There’s a little more venom in my voice than I intend for there to be, but this kid must have some kind of ulterior motive, and I wasn’t willing to play games. Not now.

 

“Looking at you.” When he grins, it’s mischievous, but toothy and genuine all the same. His teeth are perfect, dazzling white and perfectly aligned. Still…something inside my stomach doesn’t settle well with any of this.  _ Too many comparisons. _

 

Whether I am flattered or not, I blush intensely, the heat of my own face threatening me to break out in a sweat, which is not something that I want to see go down.

 

“I don’t even know your name.” As soon as the words slip my mouth, a memory ricochets in my brain, an old wound (that never healed too well to begin with) reopened. 

 

_ “I don’t even know your name.” She mutters the words, almost ashamedly. _

 

_ I close my eyes, and in a brief moment, I am swept back in time. I’m freshly dumped into Lena’s lap, her fingers carding through my hair, soft words whispered into one ringing ear, out the other; my thoughts, racing, incoherent, and frightening; and me, cold sweat dripping down my forehead, fingers trembling not so delicately, and gasping for air.  “Didn’t know you cared.” My mouth forms the now silent words. I’m not actually here. This isn’t happening again. I watch as Lena’s mouth moves, her lips precise and crisp, enough so that I don’t need to hear to know what she’s saying. I’ve been through this before. _

 

_ “I don’t.” _

 

“Mike. My name’s Mike.” His voice registers in my head, and brings me out of my daydream (not much of a dream.) It pings dully in my head, but at least it doesn’t slice my heart in two. At least it doesn’t hurt. 

 

And for the first time since I’ve arrived, the first time since all things went to hell and I got stuck with this, I think about a path that doesn’t lead to pain. I’ve spent my time chasing after Lena, getting backed into a corner and beaten with a stick. Out of all the encounters, they always end the same.  _ I always feel like shit after she happens. _

 

_ Dear Lena,  _

 

_ I don’t deserve this, I don’t deserve to be torn into two after every interaction with you. I don’t deserve walls, I don’t deserve pent up feelings and frustrations and anger. I don’t deserve to have more shit on my plate. I don’t deserve to spend all my waking hours, wondering where it went wrong with you, wondering what I could possibly do to make things easier between us, to make things real. _

 

_ And neither do you. _

 

_ Love (is it love?) _

_ Kara _

 

Snap back to reality. Mike is still flashing me his million dollar lady-killer smile, so I couldn’t have been out of it for that long. The last thing he told me was his name (I think.) I lean back, so I’m not breathing on his face, and so he hopefully doesn’t see what a floundering mess I’m about to become if he keeps looking at me like that. “K-Kara. I’m Kara.” I give him a small smile back, and he seems satisfied. He settles back into the couch, and I take this as my cue to stand up.

 

“So Kara, what brings you here?”

 

“Well I was looking for my glasses as you know, and,” I pause, chuckling nervously, “and I ended up here.” Mike looks amused, like he was watching a puppy fruitlessly try to catch its tail.

 

“Not quite what I meant.” He gives me a sad smile and a knowing look, and I understand. I become even more self conscious than what I was when I first entered this situation, knowing that I probably just sounded like a complete airhead.

 

“Oh,” is all I whisper, head down, shuffling my feet aimlessly. “Explosion. I’m the only one.” With as few words possible, I try to convey my message. Mike doesn’t need to know my whole life story, and I don’t intend on wasting my tears on him. He nods in understanding, letting me know that that’s all he needs to here.

 

“Mom died of cancer. Dad killed himself a little bit later.” I swallow my spit hard. My heart hurts, and I mentally hit myself over the head for all the times I’ve thought that I had it the worst. Mike looks up at me with his cool eyes, and runs a hand through his hair. I adjust my glasses. He holds out the same hand, trying to grasp at my arm. “Sit, please.” It comes out as a soft whine, a gentle plea. I oblige. There’s little distance between us, nothing more than a few inches. I look at my lap again, unsure of what to do or say next. I can feel his stare burning a hole into the side of my head, I can tell he’s waiting for one of us to make a move.

 

_ We don’t deserve this. _

 

I turn to Mike abruptly, and cup his jaw with both my hands, turning his entire face so that we are staring into each other. 

 

_ I just need to feel something other than her. _

 

I crash my lips against his, and I feel him jump back in surprise, but my grip is strong, and he soon settles into it, and his lips don’t fit right against mine, his mouth leaves a bitter taste on my tongue, his stubble itches my face and his nose gets in the way.  I take a mental inventory of everything that feels wrong, and  _ everything _ feels wrong. I can feel that he’s into it, his tongue is probing my mouth, one hand holds the back of my head, keeping us steady, and the other is running through my hair passionately. My glasses are sliding off my face, and I’m breathing heavy, but not out of passion; out of anxiety, because it isn’t supposed to be like this. My hands still remain on his face, but there is no excitement, no mind-numbing electricity to lure me into doing something risky (like  _ touching my goddamn lips to hers. _ ) There’s no fire dancing on my lips, not a whisper of desire being exhaled.

 

_ I don’t want this. I don’t want this. _

 

I push back, remove my hands from his face, and run them through my hair, my fingers getting caught in tangles. I push my glasses up carelessly, and stand up faster than what’s appropriate.

 

“Kara?” Mike inquiries. 

 

I look down at him apologetically, but I can’t leave it like this. “I’m sorry Mike. I-I’m, I can’t. I can’t.” I wasn’t aware that I was crying until a hot tear slid down my neck, into my shirt, dampening the cloth above my heart. He stands up, his height would be intimidating to me in any other situation. Right now, I can’t bring myself to care. He wipes soft thumb under my eye. Callused, just like his index finger. 

 

“Hey, hey,” he coos gently, his voice oddly calm considering the circumstances, “I’m here if you need me. Always. As a friend, if that’s what you want.” His blue eyes peer into my own, and I’m surprised, because I only find genuine concern and understanding. I nod, not bothering to say anything. He squeezes my hand. The words go unspoken. 

 

_ Thank you. _

 

I stand for a moment longer, turning away just a fraction of a second prior to things becoming uncomfortable, and shuffle to the stairs.

 

_ I don’t deserve this, _

 

_ but I don’t want anything else. _

 

My shuffle turns into a brisk pace, and the briskness fades into a hurried sprint to my room. I slam the door behind me, and walk into the middle of the room, my breathing labored from the running…

 

Until it isn’t from the running anymore. The wheezing becomes heavier, more painstaking, as do the voices… they never leave me.

I’m afraid they’ll never be gone. I’m afraid that I’ll hear them like this for the rest of my life.

 

_ “Kara, please! Kara take my hand.” My mother extends her arm, her eyes pleading, her voice desperate. _

 

_ The flames claw at my feet, but I am numb again.  _

 

I drop to my knees, the thud rings in my ears.

 

_ “Why did you leave us. Why are you so selfish?” Alex’s eyes turn red and angry, and not from the flames. _

 

I put my head in my lap, squeezing my eyes shut harder than I ever have before. I place my hands over my ears. “Stop! Stop it!” I scream, not really sure whom at.

 

_ “Kara, we’re your family. Why aren’t you doing anything? Do something. DO SOMETHING!” _

 

I pound both my fists into my skull. 

 

_ I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this. _

 

But I want this. More than that. I need this. Her.

 

With my family’s deranged voices echoing in my head, and my lungs screaming for air, my heart pounding, and sweat pouring from my head, reality starts to fade. The only thing that feels real is the name that rolls off my tongue, the last thing I remember before the idle flames hungrily engulf my body once more.

 

_ “Lena…”  _


	11. synergy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey errybody! oh how it's been so long, we're so sorry we've been gone! (any p!atd ppl out there?) anyways yea sorry about the wait my dudes, we hope you enjoy this chapter as much as we did (is it really a good fanfic if the authors themselves dont fangirl/boy over it?)

//Lena POV//

 

It’s hard to keep from rushing in to help Kara. I can just faintly hear whimpers coming from the room next door. It sounds like she’s in pain. It sounds like she’s scared to death. _It’ll pass, just like the last one did. She doesn’t need you. She’s strong,_ I tell myself. But wasn’t I strong? Didn’t I have intense resolve? _Then why do I want to go hold her again?_ I look at the clock. It’s been five minutes since I heard Kara say my name. _Her last episode only lasted three minutes._

 

Fuck it.

 

I tear open my door, drawing strange stares from the couple of girls in the girls common area.  ignore them, per usual, instead fumbling with the knob to Kara’s room. At first, I think it’s just stuck. Shitty house, shitty doors. Then I realize something:  _ She locked the goddamn door. _

 

I can’t get to her. 

 

I start panicking. My breath starts coming in short gasps. My knees feel weak.  _ I wonder if this is what it feels like for her…. _ I squeeze my eyes shut.  _ What are you doing? Panicking will not help Kara. Get yourself together, Lena. _ I slam my head against her door, focusing on even breaths.  _ In four, hold four, out four. In four, hold four, out four.  _

 

Okay.

 

I open my eyes. Calmly staring down the girls watching me, I glide back into my room with a poised grace and grab a bobby pin from the top of my dresser. When I calmly walk back to Kara’s door, none of the girls meet my gaze. I try not to listen to the gasps for air and the small sounds of distress that are just a door’s-width away from me now as I jiggle the bobby pin into the little hole on my side of the door. I mutter profanities under my breath as I try (unsuccessfully) six times to open the  _ Goddamn door! _ I close my eyes again.  _ Calm down, Lena. Focus. You’re no good to Kara if you’re freaking out too. _ I try the lock again; it finally springs open. I frantically open the door then slam it shut behind me. 

 

I get an understandable sense of déjà vu, seeing Kara like this. Again, her hair is splayed out like a golden fan, catching the light coming through the window. Her face is drawn and pinched in pain, by the looks of it. Her arms are shaking as she grips her knees to her chest, even as she’s lying on her side. Large, hot tears roll down her face. Her eyes are squeezed shut, but I see movement under the lids (that’s probably a good sign, right?). But her whimpers and cries have stopped. I can’t tell if that’s good or bad. Nevertheless, I rush over to her (just as I did the first time) and gather her up in my arms. I rub circles in her back, her hands, her arms, anywhere I can think of that could comfort her. After about  minute of just staring at her face, I look around the room. I freeze.

 

On the wall right in front of me, the wall Kara’s room shares with mine, the wall that I punched and chipped through, is covered in drawings. Drawings of me. They’re incredible. At a first glance, the look like photographs. There’s a portrait of me, complete with my cold stare and drawn mouth. My heart sinks when I realize how much like Lillian I look. But then I see the rest of them. I can tell in an instant they can’t be observations. In a way, I wish they were; I don’t remember feeling as happy as I look in any of the drawings. 

 

Right next to the drawing where I look like Lillian, there is another portrait of me. This one is looking out from its place on the wall, whereas the icy version of me is staring at the door. The happy portrait is so simple: I have my hair cascading down one shoulder, its dark glossiness captured perfectly in graphite. The shadows under my cheekbones make my face look softer instead of sharp and angled. My lips are curved into a playful smile (I wish I could make my face do that). And my eyes. They’re filled to the brim with what I can only describe as  _ promise _ : a promise to love, a promise to share stories of happiness and hardships, a promise to just  _ be _ , to allow myself to let go of the awful parts of my past. My heart flutters.

 

The third drawing shows me under an umbrella, surrounded by rain. Despite the slashes of grey, I can easily make out my face. There’s wistfulness in my eyes as I stare into the rain, as if I can’t leave the safety of the umbrella, even though I want to. The shadow from the umbrella paints my clothes dark; I’m a silhouette except for my shoulders and head. But my posture betrays me: I’m trapped, but resigned to the fact. Nevertheless, my eyes contain a tiny glimmer of hope. I don’t know how Kara does it. How she captures these emotions she’s never seen on me and makes them so obvious with just a few strokes of a pencil. 

 

I glance over at the fourth drawing. At first, I don’t realize it’s me. But I see the eyes and the hair are the same as the other drawings and look closer. It is, in fact, a drawing of me, but I’m on the verge of tears. The strong, poised young woman in the other drawings is replaced by a small, doleful, vulnerable girl. She (it can’t be me!) has her legs drawn to her chest. Her hair is covering half of her face. The eye that’s visible is shimmering, but not with playfulness or happiness or hope; tears threaten to spill from her eyes. It’s then that I notice the arm that reaches around the girl’s shoulders. The Lena in the picture has her head tilted slightly towards the hand, as if it can help her. The arm is strong and caring, like an actual mother. I feel the beginning of tears prickling behind my eyes.

 

My eyes move to the final drawing. My heart almost stops. I start to stand up and reach my hand out towards it, but then I remember I have the artist curled up on my lap. I return my hand to her hair and start stroking it absentmindedly. I rake the drawing with my eyes. It’s by far the best out of all of them. There’s a giant oak tree that looks as old as time taking up one edge of the paper. The detail is incredible, from the contour of the bark to the small bits of moss and lichen adorning the crevices and holes. I follow the tree trunk up to a thick branch. And lying on that branch, reaching down towards something (I haven’t seen what yet; my eyes are caught on the boy) is Lex.

 

I stare at Lex. It’s like looking directly into my past. Kara has captured the details of his features so perfectly;  _ I  _ couldn’t have remembered his face so clearly. In the drawing, he looks about fifteen. But instead of having bags under his bloodshot eyes, his skin is unblemished and his eyes are clear and sparkling. I don’t know this Lex. But I wish more than anything I did, that I could. I wish I could climb that tree with him, have him ruffle my hair, ruffle his back. I wish I could just be with Lex, just us two, our own little Luthor family. I want to be on the receiving end of that fond gaze in the drawing. I follow his gaze… to me.

 

In the drawing, I’m ten years old. I’m sitting on a swing hanging from the huge branch Lex is on. My hair is falling down my back and the setting sun is creating a halo around my head as I stare up somewhere between Lex and the sun, my lips parted in laughter. I have one hand reaching up towards both of his. My eyes show a gleam that seems to be present in all Kara’s drawings of me, but this one seems  _ different _ . I look like I  _ belong _ , that I have  _ life _ and  _ love _ coursing through my veins. Both Lex and I do. In the drawing, I’m there for him. He’s there for me. We’re both happy. We’re both alive. I can’t hold anything back anymore. I start to quietly sob. Between the drawings and the fact that Kara is in pain and I  _ can’t do anything about it _ , I can’t seem to control my thoughts or my body. A small tear falls down my face and lands on Kara’s. I follow its trail down her face, sobbing a tiny bit louder. 

 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I never meant to hurt you like this.” Another tear falls softly onto her face. I squint my eyes shut.

 

“Wh-? Wha’s happ’ing? Wh’re y’uh?”

 

My eyes fly open. “Oh my god, Kara? Kara! It’s Lena. Can you hear me? Say something! Please!” No response. My fingers fly to her neck.  _ Stupid, why didn’t you check on her earlier? You’re so selfish you just sat there crying over your own pitiful past while she was on your lap! She could have died! _ I finally find a pulse, but it’s too fast. 

 

“Shit. Fuck. No. Kara!” My voice increases with volume each word. “Meghan!” I scream. “John! Someone! Get help! Kara needs help!” It doesn't even take twenty seconds before Meghan and John are both by my side. John is calling 9-1-1 while Meghan kneels beside me and pats Kara’s forehead with a cool cloth. My tears have stopped; it feels like my heart has too.  _ What if Kara dies? Could she die? _ I vaguely hear sirens in the distance, fast approaching. I hear John yelling at people to move as if through a tunnel. I see Meghan pick up Kara in a blur and start walking her down the stairs. ( _ I didn't realize Meghan was so strong _ , I think absently.) I follow her blindly. What else could I do? This is all my fault….

 

John yells at the people in the common room. I can’t make out the words, but they all file up the stairs. Meghan lays Kara down on the couch.  _ The same couch she kissed Mike on.  _ I want to be angry, angry at Kara, angry at that that attractive little shit who she kissed, but I can’t find it in me. I just want Kara to be safe.

 

I’m so caught up in caring for Kara (see, that’s why I used to try my hardest not to) that I don’t hear Meghan and John talking to me. I look over at them. 

 

“What?” I ask cluelessly.

 

“Lena, you should go to your room too,” Meghan says. John nods in agreement. I just stare at them.

 

“What? Hell no!” I say, my voice slowly rising. “I found her like this, I’m responsible for whatever happens to her.”

 

“It’s not up for discussion, Ms. Luthor,” John says.

 

“Like hell it isn’t,” I bite back. 

 

“Lena,” Meghan says in a warning tone. 

 

“I can’t just leave her! I did this to her!” I cry out.

 

Meghan’s brow furrows and she puts a hand on my shoulder. “Lena, honey, you didn’t do this to her.”

 

“You don’t know that,” I insist. “You didn’t hear her  _ call my name _ when she was having this–, this–, this  _ day terror _ .”

 

John gives me a strange look. “Ms. Luthor, what Kara’s experiencing is a  _ panic attack _ , not a… day terror.”

 

I laugh harshly. “I’ve seen panic attacks. Do you have eyes? This is more than just a panic attack!”

 

“You’re testing my patience, Ms. Luthor,” John warns.

 

Meghan places her other hand on John’s shoulder. She turns towards me. “Lena, this is a very severe panic attack.”  _ No shit, _ I think. “We’ve never seen anything this serious, so we called an ambulance. They’ll be here any second. The doctors will take good care of her and you won’t have to worry about anything. Kara will be fine.”

 

I feel tears well in my eyes. “You don’t understand,” I whisper. 

 

Meghan pats my shoulder. “It’s okay, Lena. Go ahead to your room and calm down a bit. I’ll call you from the hospital when Kara wakes up.” I just shake my head. Meghan’s about to respond when we hear the suddenly piercing blare of the sirens.

 

“I’ll let them know what happened,” John says as he heads out the door. As soon as he’s outside, I turn to Meghan.

 

“Please,” I whisper. “You need to let me come with her.” My tears are threatening to spill. “I know I did this to her. She said my name when she started having the attack. It happened before too. Please, I’m so sorry I did this to her. I just want her to know that. I just want to be there when she wakes up. I want to tell her.” A tear traces its way down my left cheek.

 

Meghan looks between me and the door John disappeared through. She nods ever so slightly, then hoists Kara up bridal style and brings her out to the stretcher they have positioned right outside the door (damn house is so bad it can’t even get a stretcher through the front door). I climb into the back of the ambulance while Meghan exchanges a few words with John and then the ambulance driver. I see John throw an annoyed glare in my direction for a split second before he whirls around and heads into the house. I feel Meghan take a seat next to me and hear the ambulance doors shut, but all I’m really focused on is the I.V. needle stuck in Kara’s arm. That and Kara’s perfect fingers. I hold them in mine as the paramedics sedate her. 

 

I tune out the urgent jargon the doctors spew as I turn Kara’s hands over in mine. They’re so soft, so delicate, but at the same time solid and reassuring, despite the fact that she’s unconscious. I study the contour and trace her bone structure from her fingernails up to her wrist. I know I should feel like I’m seeing her hand up close and in such detail for the first time, but it’s not true. I wrack my brain for a full minute before I find the answer.

 

Her drawing. The fourth one, where I look completely and utterly broken (how I feel now). The arm reaching out to comfort me. It’s Kara.

 

I burst out into sobs for the second time today. On one hand, it’s mortifying; I’ve never lost my composure this much in a month (pre-Kara), let alone a day. But on the other hand (Kara’s hand), it feels so  _ good _ just to  _ let go _ . I’m suddenly startled out of my tears by a strange hand on my shoulder. It’s one of the paramedics. 

 

“Miss, don’t worry. We will make sure your…,” she pauses. “Sister? Girlfriend?” My heart skips a beat at the second word.

 

“Just friend,” I interject.

 

“In any case, we’ll take care of her. Your friend will be okay.” I glance at the medic’s name tag:  _ Gideon _ .

 

“Thank you, Gideon,” I whisper. She just smiles and returns to her work. I clasp Kara’s hand tighter.  _ I won’t let go _ , I promise silently.

 

So it’s not my fault when the doctors break my promise. They have to literally pry my hand away from Kara’s as they wheel her out of the ambulance. When they do that, I want to scream. I want to fight my way through the mass of white lab coats and pale blue scrubs and black paramedic uniforms. I want to follow them into the room where they’re taking her and insist on being there for her. But I don’t. I’ve already made enough of a spectacle of myself for today. Instead, I calmly (numbly) follow Meghan as she’s led to the waiting room. 

 

I sit down in one of the drab, tan, hardly-cushioned chairs next to Meghan. She types a quick message into her phone (I assume to let John know our status) before turning to me.

 

“Lena?” she says tentatively. I turn wearily towards her. “Honey, Kara will be fine. The doctors already stabilized her on the ambulance. They said they just need to check to make sure she didn’t sustain any injuries before they arrived.”

 

My heart starts beating faster.  _ Sustain any injuries? _ “W- what type of injuries? Are they serious?” 

 

Meghan puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “We don’t even know if she sustained any injuries. The main thing they’re worried about is head or brain trauma.” 

 

I close my eyes; I can tell Meghan’s not telling me the whole truth, but I can’t give less of a shit. I feel Meghan rub my shoulder as I take a shaky breath. I nod slightly, more to reassure myself than acknowledge Meghan.  _ Kara’s tough. She’ll be fine. There wasn't that loud of a thump when she fell, was there? _ I take another shaky breath and open my eyes.  _ She’ll be fine. _

 

~~~

 

Two hours.

 

That’s how long it takes for the doctor to finally come out and call out Meghan’s name.

 

That’s how long I’ve been alternating between pacing back and sitting rigid in the chair next to Meghan. That’s how long I’ve been repeating  _ Kara’s going to be fine _ over and over in my head and believing it a tiny bit less each time (by this point, I’m pretty much expecting to see the coroner come out of Kara’s room). That’s how long Meghan’s put up with (and not put up with) my anxious babbling. That’s how long I’ve been on the brink of losing my composure and bursting out into tears. 

 

“Ms. Moors?” the doctor asks.

 

Meghan stands up. “Yes?”

 

“My name is Doctor Martin Stein. I assume you’re Ms. Danver’s caretaker?”

 

“Yes, I am,” Meghan replies, sounding a tiny bit annoyed. “How is she?”

 

“Se suffered from a severe panic attack…,”  _ No shit _ , I think. “But she’s fully recovered. However, we’d like her to come back every now and then, just so we can check up on her.”

 

I take this as my cue to finally speak. “What the hell do you need to check up on? I thought you said she was fully recovered!”

 

Dr. Stein gives me strange look. Addressing Meghan, he continues: “We’d like to have Kara come by once or twice a week to see a psychiatrist. I can come over to the home if that’s easier.” Seeing Meghan’s and my looks of confusion, Stein smiles. “Ah, yes, I’m a psychiatrist as well. In fact, I hold four PhDs. Although, to be fair, one of them is in physics….”

 

I let him babble for another minute before I interrupt him. My cold, impenetrable walls are back up; it’s like riding a bike. “May I see Kara now?” 

 

I’m genuinely surprised when Stein merely smiles. “Of course. Right this way.” He begins walking down the hallway on the left. I hesitate for a second before I follow. We stop after about half a minute of walking.

 

“Ms. Danvers is in room 197. She’s not awake yet, but you may go in if you please.”

 

“Thank you,” I whisper as I open the door.

 

I try to keep from looking at her until I hear Dr. Stein’s retreating footsteps fade away. But I can’t. I haven’t even completely shut the door behind me before my eyes fly to her face. Again I feel the prickle of tears behind my eyes. 

 

She’s covered by a pristine white sheet. Her chest is covered (almost scantily so) by a pale blue hospital gown. Her skin is no longer covered in a sheen of sweat, her brow is no longer furrowed in pain. Her hands are splayed out against the sheets, palm down, on the exact same place on either side of her body; she looks completely symmetrical. Even her hair falls perfectly over her shoulders. Once again, I’m reminded of how angelic this girl can look. I sit down in the chair next to her bed. Taking her hand, I watch the steady rise and fall of her chest.

 

I look at her hand as I hold it. It suddenly dawns on me that it’s by her hand (literally) that this whole thing started. She wanted to draw me so she did. She poured all her emotions into those drawings of me; I could tell by the care with which the lines contouring my face were drawn, the way my eyes and hair were shaded to capture my true visage…. And then she drew her own hand into the drawing of the broken me (i.e., the me she’s made me into with her persistence and care and persistence to care), causing me to break down and  _ not _ get her immediate medical help, which ended up with her lying in a hospital bed with an I.V. in her arm and me almost in tears on her bedside.

 

“So this is all your fault,” I whisper. But I don’t believe it myself. I silently take the words back and, suddenly struck by madness (or memories of a time when Lex would read fairy tales to me, whichever), I kiss Kara’s hand. 

 

Of course, nothing happens. I mentally kick myself.  _ What the hell has come over you Lena? _

 

So I wait. Normally, I check the time periodically (I always need to know what’s going on), but here, now, it feels timeless. 

 

Then the tempo of the heart monitor changes. My heart jumps. I focus my gaze (because I totally wasn’t just staring at Kara’s blurry profile) and actually look at her face. Her eyes are squeezed shut. For a second, I’m scared she’s having another terror–  _ panic attack _ . Then I see her lips starting to curl into a grimace.  _ I’d know that look on anyone. She’s about to throw up. _ I grab the trash can and move it to the side of the bed just as Kara empties her stomach content. She then bolts straight upright, grasps frantically at the sheets, and throws up again. 

 

I set the trash can down and look fondly at Kara. I quietly observe her taking in all the sounds and sights and smells around her. She finally looks towards me. I smile shyly.  _ I can’t let myself care too much…. _

 

_ But I do care. That’s all that matters. And Kara needs to know that.  _

 

But I need to start somewhere.

 

“Hey,” I murmur.

 

//Kara POV//

 

The insides of my eyelids become a little less dark, as my brain registers dull stimuli; the faint rush of blood pulsing in my ears, the shallow breaths that enter and exit through my mouth, which is cotton dry. I lick my lips. I slip back into nothingness.

 

I am slightly reawoken by tiny sobs, a gentle tear spills onto my face, it’s not my own. I mumble, incoherent and desperate.  _ What’s happening. Who are you? _ I received a garbled response. My brain warps the speaker’s words, I can’t understand a thing. I feel two fingers apply pressure to my neck.

 

I’m still here, I think. 

 

My ears pick up on the faraway, but rapidly nearing, sounds of sirens. The light from the world behind my eyelids fades again.

 

//

 

The light is much brighter here, its rays cut through my eyelids. The immense change burns, and I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, not wanting to open them to the harshness that awaits. My senses all begin to return at once, and suddenly, I’m assaulted by everything. I hear frantic footsteps echoing through hallways. It smells overly sterilized; I feel increasingly sick. I shake my head unwillingly, tossing and turning, but still refusing to open my eyes. The movement creates an uneasy feeling in my stomach, and that combined with smell and my general nausea causes me to hastily roll over in my bed and empty my stomach content. It’s in that moment that I’m forced to open my eyes, and they water instantaneously as the harsh fluorescent lights above enter my dilated eyes. I bolt up, realizing that this is not where I was last. I grasp frantically at the bed sheets, which are painfully clean, the overpowering scent of clean linen compelling me to throw up a second time. “Ow!” I yelp quietly, as the needle that feeds the I.V. drip solution into my bloodstream squirms with me, causing an uncomfortable feeling in the crook of my elbow. I look down to my chest, I am laden in a light blue hospital gown, which is not nearly enough to subside the shivers that overcome due to the layer of cold sweat that rests on my skin. I begin to hear separate noises one at a time. The steady beat of my heart monitor, distant sobs of brokenhearted people. The blood in my ears again, the whipping breeze outside, and above all else,  _ her. _

 

“Hey.” (It’s moments like these, moments where her voice is just so  _ tender _ …) 

 

In that moment, I decide to forget everything that’s built up to where we are now. Because she’s here now, and I can’t stop myself from letting out a shy smile. “Hey.” For a second, she looks genuinely angry, and in her eyes, I can see her emotions transform from guilt to happiness and ending with a scared, frantic, look in her eyes. I knew that look all too well; it was the gaze that someone held when they lost someone close to them before. I don’t have time to interpret it before she speaks again.

 

“Don’t  _ ever _ scare me like that again.” Her tone was angry, but underlying with nothing short of worry and concern; one that a mother would hold for her child, or someone would hold for someone they cared about all too much. 

 

I don’t know how to handle it. So I make an attempt at a joke. “Sorry to inconvenience you again.”  _ Oh my god Kara you just sounded like a depressed narcissist.  _ I didn’t mean for it to sound so damn sad, and I think it struck a nerve in both of us. I’ve always been shit at saying the right things.

 

For the second time in a span of seconds, Lena’s pure emotions astonish me. She brushes her hand across my cheek, as gentle as an artist who is adding that precious, last stroke to their work, her fingers a fine tipped paintbrush gracing across my skin; the canvas. Despite her gentle action, the panic in her eyes arise. “ No, no, it’s not your fault. I’m sorry.” 

 

Of all the times I’ve wanted to hear that, to hear her admittance, to hear her own up to her actions, to feel remorse for the wholly  _ awful _ she’s made me feel… none of it mattered. I decide that I never want to hear her utter those words again; I never want to make her feel like she has anything to apologize for. I swallow hard, but keep my exterior light. I laugh gently. 

 

“What do you have to apologize about, Lena?”

 

Her eyes grow dark, and I can tell that she thinks she has  _ everything _ to apologize for.  _ Oh, Lena…  _

“ I… I waited to come help you. I thought you’d be fine.” She twiddles her thumbs, bites her lips with perfect teeth. A strand of hair falls before her face. I say nothing as I reach with two fingers, my nimble fingers tucking it behind her ear. The same two fingers trace down her jaw and come to rest under her chin. I apply pressure, gently forcing her head upwards, daring her eyes to meet mine. She resists at first, her eyes flickering like a candle in the wind, but always managing to avoid mine.

 

It’s fine, I could stay like this all day.

 

But when our eyes do collide, I’m at a loss. For everything. Words, breath, blood to my head, the feeling in my fingers. I hesitate before I speak, but I speak exactly what I mean. What I know, what she needs to know.

 

“I’m... I’m glad it was you.” 

 

She lifts her chin my fingers immediately, turning her head to the side, taking but a fraction of a second to gather her thoughts before blurting out: “You’re a really good drawer.”

 

Two thoughts buzz in my head. The first one is regret; I was too deep, I got too emotional too soon. The other was burning embarrassment.  _ I forgot about the pictures! Kara you freak!  _ I bury my face in my hands in an attempt to hide my glowing face, but I think it just further establishes that this is just an outright awkward situation for me. “Oh my gosh! I forgot about those! You must think I’m the biggest creep.” My voice is muffled, and I peep through my fingers to gauge her reaction just in time to catch her small smile (it’s just so  _ pure _ .) The tension in my chest eases, and we both laugh as we realize that my heart monitor has settled back into a healthy rate. I hadn’t even realized how erratic it had become. 

 

“No, they’re really good,” she pauses, like she’s unsure if she really wants to say what she’s going to say next. “Maybe I don’t mind modeling for some random new girl.”  _ Oh how we’ve come so far, Lena. _   


“Y-you remember that? This makes this whole situation even worse!”  In my peripheral vision, I see the tips of her fingers twitch, like she was suppressing the urge to just reach out and make contact with me, any part of me. I twitch mine too, in hopes that she’ll see, an unspoken message that I hope she’ll decipher. Her fingers drum against the hospital chair that she sits on. It’s ripped, worn out from the many who have been here before us.  _ But have any of them ever felt this way? _

 

“It’s really okay. They look great.”

 

I look to my lap bashfully, and lock my hands together. She’s still drumming hers.

 

“Thank you,” I half whisper it, still not over my initial dismay and embarrassment.  I had a great model I guess.”  _ I don’t know how much more forward I can get.  _

 

“How-” She has to take a moment. Her face goes white, and her tongue darts in and out of her mouth. She inhales deeply through her mouth before continuing, and she stammers out the rest of her sentence in that one breath. “How did you know what Lex looked like?” 

 

The buzz in my head dulls a little as a try to remember exactly what it is that I had drawn. I squeeze my eyes shut in concentration- a kaleidoscope constellation explodes, and I’m back in my room, on my knees, staring blankly at my wall, but not taking anything in. 

 

_ I see the picture that Lena is referring to, it’s right there and I want to get closer, so I can remember for her. I remember how much effort I put into it; how much hope I had at the time, all the things I’d give to see her happy. All the things I would do to make her happy. I will my feet to move, I yearn to trace my finger over her face, but I remain on my knees, eyes fixated; everything unmoving. I know far too well what comes after this. “No.” It comes out as a plead to no one in particular, there’s nobody here. _

 

_ I’m alone again. _

 

_ “No…” _

 

“Kara?” 

 

The voice is far away. Even fainter is the rapidly increasing rhythm of beeps on my heart monitor. I pay no real attention to either. I feel the sweat pool at my forehead, and when I taste salt on my lips, I can’t determine its origin.

 

“Kara?” The voice is stronger this time, and I feel a tight grip on my arm, the one without the needle inserted in my vein. “Should I get someone?”

 

My eyes snap open. I ignore the harshness of the lights, the way they obliterate all images behind my eyelids. “N-no.” I manage to sputter out (as a reply or as a plea, I’m not sure.)  

 

The worry in her eyes is wholesome, she’s not even trying to hide it. She hasn’t relaxed her grip on my arm, her fingers are white, and I can feel that section going numb. I don’t mind it so much. “Are you alright?” She’s leaning into me, waiting for a response, any response, and bile rises in my throat as I think about what just happened; how easily I was triggered into the  _ moment _ , how quickly I slipped in and out of reality. 

 

Lena’s already here, that’s already enough on her plate. 

 

I think of a truth, the one that my brain supplies me the quickest. “Oh. W-well, I saw him in the news a lot. I-I kinda just based it on that.” Her eyes narrow, and she glances at the heart monitor. I almost dare (fear) it to betray my current condition. The beeps have steadied again, supplying a steady pattern and invading both our ears. The pristine white sheets, the nauseating scent, the drugs being fed into my bloodstream, and the machine that betrays my wishes; all contribute to the uneasy ambience, the skepticism, the undeniable doubt that everything is going to be okay (how could it be? Take a look at where we are.)

 

Yet she continues. “I remember when he would smile like that. Like he was happy. He  _ was _ happy. I bet you never saw  _ that  _ in the news.” Her tone is wistful, like she was remembering a fairy tale story, a fond memory, a welcomed dream. I want to remember my hands own creations; envision the lines that I carved into sturdy white paper, close my eyes and look back for a moment.

 

I’m afraid to close my eyes again. Instead, they remain wide open, taking in every ounce of mood that Lena radiates. Her shoulders are slumped, and her hair disheveled, like she hasn’t gotten much sleep. And when the memory of her brother rolled off her tongue, when she reimagined an easier, better, time, her eyes broke. I don’t think she notices the way I do; I don’t think her happiness is as important to her as it is to me. 

 

I think about Lena for a second. How she never indulges herself. How she denies every opportunity that comes her way. How the curtains in her room are always closed; sunlight shut out. It’s always dark in Lena’s world. When was the last time her vision exploded with color? The last time her eyes were encompassed with colors aside from dirty grays, dreary blues, the darkest of blacks? When was the last time her life had been revolutionized; her world tilted on it’s axis?

 

When was the last time?

 

“A-are…are you happy?” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I want to take them back. I see Lena’s pupils dilate before she closes her eyes. The bright green nearly disappears. Her head tips back for a moment before it falls forward, so that if her eyes were open, she’d be staring at her hands, which were settled in her lap. My heart falls a bit when I realize that she had removed her grip from me. “I-I’m-” I stutter the beginning to my apology, but stop as I hear a gentle sniff, my eyes drawn to her white knuckles, and as her head raises, her eyes teary and her nose red, I’m thrown back into a memory.

 

_ I’m bouncing happily with Alex on our new trampoline, one that our parents had bought us for the sole reason of stopping us from constantly complaining about how we were the only kids in the entire world without a trampoline.  _

 

_ “Alex, Alex!” My 5 year old self eagerly gestures my sister over to the spot where I’m jumping, and she arrives to where I am in a single bound, awaiting whatever it is I have to tell her. I want to show her the new trick I had just mastered- if I jumped high enough, I could land on my butt and then bounce back up to my feet. She patiently watches as I show her, and when I land back on my feet, I beam at her proudly. I want her to be impressed. I love my sister so much, I just want her to be proud of me.  _

 

_ Instead, she just rolls her eyes, unenthused. “That’s lame, Kara. Watch what I can do.” She brushes me to the side, and ignores my indigent gasp as she begins to jump, gaining more and more height until she throws her weight forward. I was so afraid that she was going to fall and hurt herself! I stepped in her way, crying. “Alex! No!” I push her, so she loses her coordination and becomes off-kilter. She lands hard, and while one knee bends under her weight, the other snaps back, and Alex lets out a twisted cry of pain. I can only sit and cry with her as our parents come out, and remove both of us from the trampoline. As dad nurses Alex’s injuries, my mom turns to me, eyes blazing. “Look what you’ve done, Kara! Are you happy with yourself? Are you happy, Kara?”  _

 

In my memory, Alex turns to face me, her face poking out from behind our father. Her eyes are red and puffy, her nose runny, her dark hair plastered across her face, as she mouths words that I can’t hear:

 

“I’m sorry.” 

 

But as my surroundings change, as the sweet summer breeze is replaced with the sour scent of sick and sterile, as the sheen of hot, sticky, sweat, turns cold against my skin, Alex’s face melts away, and I’m eye to eye with Lena again. The same dark hair. The same sad eyes. The same off-putting feeling; the melting pot of guilt and illness and wrongdoing.

 

The same words that Alex whispered to me that day, except these words weren’t carried away in the wind. These words were the same, but they weren’t the same.

 

“I’m sorry, that was a weird thing to ask. God that was bad of me, sorry.”

 

Lena’s lips ghost over words she’s about to say. Like she’s debating, a battle in her head, pondering on what to reply. She has courage. If it were me, I never would’ve answered.

 

“No, you’re right. I’m not really happy. But I know I’m not, so it makes it better.”

 

(I am sure that the whole hospital heard the breaking of my heart.) Lena’s all too real words enter one ear, and do not leave the other. 

 

And how could they ever?

 

She said she knows she’s not happy; that her self-awareness eases the pain, somehow dulls it so she can at least pretend it’s not there.

 

Maybe it explains a lot. Maybe it explains why she’s run away all those times. Maybe she’s afraid that finding a way to be happy, a way that she could never access, would just make it all worse.

 

Maybe Lena thinks that she can’t have me. Maybe she thinks that she’s not worthy; that she’s too broken, too deranged, too evil, too unforgivable for crimes that she was never even a part of. Maybe she blames herself for Lex’s turning. Maybe she thinks she deserved every ounce of hate she’s ever received from anyone she’s ever placed her trust in before, and who’s to blame her? Maybe Lena did see fucking fireworks that night. Maybe the electricity was as mind-numbing to her as it was to me; maybe Lena wants me in the same way as I yearn to have her.

 

And if that being the case, who am I to never forgive her for being scared? Lena deserves the entire world, she deserves someone who will find every way, fight every battle, do anything for her. 

 

But she doesn’t know that, does she?

 

Every single one of us,  _ everyone _ , has a reason to be sad. They may know it, and they may not. Lots of us simply choose to ignore it; repress the bad, put on a show for the rest of the world. Others embrace it, and I guess Lena is one of those people. It’s what makes her feel okay.

 

That just doesn’t work for me. I’ve never been one to dampen other people’s moods. When my family was still around, they called me Sunshine. I had never been anything but their Sunshine.

 

Since the incident, being anything but anyone’s sunshine has gotten a little more difficult. This I know. Yet… 

 

“I feel like it doesn’t make it better at all…” I whisper the words, partly because I don’t have it in me to actually declare the truth, partly because I don’t want to make Lena’s pain about me. 

 

“It does for me.” Her eyes betray her lazy shrug and the indifference that seeps from her. 

 

“Do you wanna know what I see? Who I see?” I probe gently.

 

I want her to know. 

 

She rolls her eyes, like I asked a question that had a painfully obvious answer. “A broken girl who nobody wants because of her family’s mistakes?” I realize now how close she is to me. I blow a puff of air out of nose, and push her shoulder gently, like we were two friends chumming around. (We are both all too aware of the weight of her words.)

 

My smile fades quickly. “I see someone who’s afraid. Why are you so scared?”

 

I’ve asked this question before. Different setting, different time, different emotions; but my curiosity remains the same.

 

As does the sheer power of my words. Lena’s crying again, and lying here, immobilized, forced to face too many realizations, I realize yet another thing; just how many times I’ve made her cry.

 

Do I do it on purpose? (Does it make me feel powerful in some twisted way? Does it make me a sick kind of important?)

 

I don’t have time for these egotistical thoughts, Lena’s what’s important to me right now.

 

“What if no one ever loves me?” She says it with an alarming air of calm, and aside from the fact that she is shedding silent tears, one would think that she’s rehearsed that line in her head a million times over. Like she’s learned it to be her fate, like it’s her motto; the life she’s lived, the kind of life she plans on continuing to live.

 

One hell of a sad, sad, life.

 

I’ve tried to show her that I care before. She’s constantly rejected me, denied me, ridiculed me, played me off as nothing.

 

I’ve been hurt, I’ve been scared; Lena’s made me a lot of things.

 

But I do care, and Lena needs to know that.

 

I grab both her hands with both of my hands. I ignore the sharp pain in my elbow as the needle shifts under my skin. We both ignore the way my heart monitor picks up the pace as I look into her eyes, the way she leans into  _ me _ this time, because of my current incapability to do so myself. My stare never waivers, my heart never slows, but the pain in my elbow dulls, the scent of my puke in the trash can isn’t so prominent, all the inconveniences in the world go away for a moment, the way they always seem to do when I’m this close to her.

 

“I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

 

“Thank you.” The words are impossibly quiet, and I am hit by a sudden wave of pure exhaustion. The cocktail of drugs in the I.V. drip have gone into effect, and everything’s numb. My eyelids flutter as I try to keep them open a moment longer, just to take in her features a little more. My fingers loosen their grip on her, and slip out of her hands, falling to both sides of the bed, so I am splayed out nearly symmetrical. A deep sigh escapes my lips, and I close my eyes for good.

 

She thinks I’m asleep when she takes my left hand back into her hold. She thinks that I can’t feel her thumb rub soothing circles on my knuckles. 

 

She doesn’t know the way my heart sputtered about in my chest, because it’s actually too drugged up to move any faster (it still felt like it was about to explode, though.) She didn’t know that I felt her gentle lips, her pure, baby soft lips, her sweet, cool as a cucumber, lips on my skin. She doesn’t know that I’m spinning circles in my head, that my eyelids have put on a kaleidoscope display, that my world has just been revolutionized a little.

 

And for now, I think that’s okay.

 

For now, I’ll take the tender kiss on the back of my hand, the one that she thinks doesn’t exist to me.

 

It’s more than okay.


	12. penny for your thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bet u guys thought we were dead ;)  
> First off, happy pride to all of you who are part of the community! Second off, SUPER sorry baby_danvers and I have been neglecting you. We literally have no excuse. We suck. Hope you enjoy!

//Lena POV//

 

I don’t know what possessed me to kiss Kara’s hand. I certainly didn’t mean to do it. It was only in that moment, when I was watching her slip into a peaceful sleep, that I just stopped  _ thinking _ so much. I stopped caring about my walls, about the prejudice my name holds, about all the bitterness and resentment I’ve built up in that  _ damn _ foster home. I just let my body do what it wanted, whatever it felt was right. I haven’t surrendered that type of control ever before in my life.

 

But  _ dammit _ if I don’t want to lose myself to her for the rest of time.

 

As soon as I kissed her hand, my head exploded. Fireworks. Everywhere. I swear, my heartbeat doubled (after struggling to keep beating). And it was so simple. I kissed her hand. That’s all I did. And it still felt– still  _ feel _ – like the universe just screamed  _ Endless Love _ into my face. I look over at Kara’s sleeping form. I can still feel the warmth of her hand on my lips. I see a tiny bit of my ruby red lipstick on the back of her hand. I smile so widely it almost feels unnatural.  _ Almost. _ Kara makes anything and everything feel perfect.

 

My heart suddenly drops. I feel like I’ve just been catapulted off a roller coaster. The gravity of the situation dawns on me so instantaneously, I know I would stagger if I was standing up. I press the heels of my palm into my eyes. 

 

I feel  _ complete _ again. Like there  _ isn’t  _ that gaping hole that Lex left. That Hope left. That even Sara left. I’ve felt this feeling before. And every time I have, it been ripped out of me, torn to shreds, burned, and scattered. But this time, it’s different. My curiosity, my concern, my burning  _ desire _ for (her) companionship, they’re all out in the open. I’ve showed Kara I care. I’ve shown her I can be the anchor, the rock, the tether she needs, and she also knows that she could become these things for me. I’ve opened up to her. And I don’t want to close back up. I don’t want to retreat back into my emotionless castle like I have my entire life. I want to stand my ground and fight for my happiness. 

 

And right now, my happiness is Kara.

 

But I’ve never fought for anyone other than myself before. Of course, I wanted to confront my mother about Sara, to follow that poor, confused, sad girl with the canary backpack out the door and kiss her once more, apologize for Lillian’s actions, explain that I felt  _ something _ . Of course, I regretted not talking to Lex that night he came home drenched in blood, not giving him a chance to explain what happened, why he did what he did, how he became what he became. And of course, I wanted to plead my case to the Palmers, express exactly how I felt about Hope leaving me, join hands with her and stand defiant with her until the Palmers either adopted us both or left us so we could find a family that wanted both of us. Of course, I  _ wanted _ to fight to keep my happiness that lived in those people. But I never did. I’m a woman of both words and actions, but the  _ wrong _ words and the  _ wrong _ actions, at least when it comes to love. And I’m not a woman of change. So how will I be able to fight to keep Kara in my life?  _ Will _ I be able to fight to keep Kara in my life?

 

I lower my hands from my face. I look over at Kara. She hasn’t moved a muscle. Nothing about her has changed from just a few seconds ago. But now when I think about my kiss, I no longer smile. The corners of my mouth just sadly turn upwards the tiniest bit as tears threaten to spill.  _ I can’t help it.  _  I lean back in the beige upholstery and let the rhythmic beeping and the metric rise and fall of Kara’s chest lull me into an uneasy rest.

 

~~~

 

I give up trying to sleep after the fourth time a particularly loud  _ beep _ from Kara’s monitor starts me awake. Every time that happens, it feels like I’m simultaneously being shoved from a giant cliff and watching Kara fall from a giant cliff as I stand helplessly, reaching in vain for her hand. I  _ hate _ not having control. And every time I look at Kara, I’m reminded not only of the fact that I could lose her if she has another attack, but the fact that  _ she _ was the one who made  _ me  _ feel as though  _ I _ had no control, even as she’s lying there in a coma, for all I know. The irony of the situation almost makes me laugh. Almost.

 

I sit back down in the chair next to the hospital bed (have I been pacing this whole time?). I’m back to watching Kara. I focus on her face, on the contour of her nose, her cheekbones, on the flutter of her eyelids and eyelashes. She doesn’t have glasses on; it makes her look… older. More responsible. Less like a meek little girl and more like a strong young woman. It’s like she could have an entirely new identity. Perhaps one that I would want to get to know. 

 

But what if I don’t get a chance to know this side of her? What if I never get to see her smile, never get to hear her stutter and stumble over her own words again? What if she doesn’t want to see me again? What if she hates me? Did I go too far by kissing her hand? Was I cruel in being distant and then wanting to be close to her? What if she gets adopted? What if she ends up needing special care and can’t come back to the home? What if Kara’s sunlight never shines again?

 

I feel my breathing start to quicken. My eyes concentrate on Kara’s face again. I imagine her summer sky eyes, filled with tenderness, gazing at me. I close my eyes. In my mind, Kara’s back, sunshiney as ever, her smile radiant and her hair glowing with a golden light of its own. I feel a single tear trace a longing trail down my cheek. I will Kara to shift, to mumble something adorably unintelligible, to open her eyes.  _ Wake up. _

 

If I was a religious person, I would think that God heard my prayer. But it wasn’t a prayer and I certainly don’t believe that there’s anyone other than myself controlling myself (except for Kara, of course). I nevertheless thank the universe as Kara stirs. Her eyes flutter open lazily; her lids are still heavy, but she sees me and smiles. I quickly wipe the tear from my face, hoping Kara doesn’t see. 

 

“Hey, sleepyhead.” I smile as I take her hand lightly. At first, she doesn’t respond to my presence and I’m ready to pull away. My heart falls. But then her hand tightens weakly around mine. My heart soars.  _ What is it about this girl that makes me like this? _ I see her smile groggily, and I can’t help but smile even more in return. 

 

“I’m no sleepyhead,” she objects; her words are mumbled and her eyes are still barely open. Her tone is light, even bubbly, but her words hold more meaning than I think she wanted them to. Despite this, I tilt my head fondly at her attempt to seem stronger than she is. New tears prick at the corner of my eyes. Yes, she’s a ray of sunshine, but she doesn’t have to pretend that she’s not hurt or scared or vulnerable.  _ Yeah, Lena, you’re one to talk. _

 

I glance at the I.V. drip next to her bed. “Tell that to the anesthesia.” I’m still smiling fondly as I rub circles in her hand. Thinking back to her previous words, I realize that I  _ hadn’t _ realized how much I’ve influenced Kara with my tendency to be distant. I can’t help but feel like she’s become the tough one and I’ve become soft. My thoughts are confirmed as Kara struggles to sit up. I stand up halfway and open my mouth, about to fuss over her and tell her to stay still, to rest, but she shuts her eyes and shakes her head, gesturing me away. 

 

“Precisely,” she says, a small smile playing at her lips. “It’s the drugs, not me.”  _ Shit. _ Even if she doesn’t realize it, she’s starting to blame her faults on something else, she’s starting to deflect, she’s starting to build walls. I can’t let her do this. Kara’s too outgoing to be confined within her own emotions. I smile at her in return, but then my brow furrows.

 

“Seriously, though, how do you feel?” I almost (so many  _ almost _ s with this girl) regret the words as they leave my mouth. The small smile on Kara’s face falls from her lips. Her eyes harden, the crinkles at the corners disappear. But she doesn’t furrow her brow. She doesn’t look angry the way she normally does, with her jaw clenched, her eyes narrowed, her eyebrows drawn. She looks impassive (okay, maybe slightly annoyed), as if she’s a robot or under mind control. It’s eerie. But I recognize the face. It reminds me of my mask, the one that I crafted during my many years in the home, the one Kara so accurately captured with the meticulous strokes of her pencil.

 

She does indeed sound very annoyed when she answers. “I’m fine, really. I don’t even really know why I’m here.” It’s as if she’s taking my words and adopting them as her own. _When did she become me? And how even_ could _she become me?_ _Despite all she’s been through, she’s to happy, too optimistic for this to happen to her…._

 

“Kara, you were basically seizing for seven minutes before the paramedics sedated you.” There are so many more words that are at the tip of my tongue:  _ You’re not fine, really. I was scared that you would die. I almost cried for you… again. I lo– no.  _ I’m upset, I’m not thinking straight. What I think, what I feel right now isn’t what I normally would.  _ Right? _

 

I glance at Kara to gauge her reaction to my account. Something dances behind her eyes (What is it? Anxiety? Indignation? Anger? Fear? I can’t tell.) but then I see even more walls go up. Whatever it is that Kara is feeling is not something she wants me to see. But the fact that she feels insecure enough to put up walls is, in a really twisted way, a good sign; she still  _ feels _ , she’s just scared of what that entails. So no matter what I’m feeling now, whether it’s real or not, I need to make sure Kara knows she’s safe with me. I’ll nevertheless have to tread carefully; I know how  _ I _ would respond to any criticism if I were in Kara’s position. 

 

Kara meets my eyes. There’s defiance in those discs of crystal blue; it’s as if she’s challenging me to call her bluff. “It was nothing,” she claims, “Just some kind of episode. It’s over with.” She’s too assertive with her words, her tone, her body language. It’s painfully obvious that she  _ wants _ me to think she’s nonchalant about the whole thing, but she isn’t.  _ Remember, Kara, _ I think sadly, _ reading people is my speciality. _

 

“You could have died,” I whisper.  _ There, I said it. _ A tear threatens to fall from the corner of my eye.  _ Why can’t she just  _ admit _ that she’s not okay? _

 

“I said it was no big deal. I told you,  _ I’m fine. _ ” I can hear the mounting frustration in her words. I don’t want to make her more upset (what if I cause another “kind of episode?”), but she  _ needs _ to understand that it  _ is  _ a big deal, she’s  _ not _ fine. 

 

“The doctors said it was a really severe panic attack. Like,  _ really _ severe.” I pause, look pointedly at her, let it sink in. My brow furrows when her expression remains passive. “Kara, this isn’t something you can just brush off!”

 

Kara shakes her head stubbornly. Her eyes are trained on her thighs as she speaks; it sounds like she’s trying to convince herself more than me. “They’re not panic att–,” she cuts herself off, shakes her head again, more harshly this time. She faces me, her eyes drilling into mine. “You know what? The doctor doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Really, I feel great now.”

 

_ There’s the deflection again _ . “Kara, they were talking with Meghan about possible triggers.” Old me would despise myself for the painfully obvious concern in my voice, but all I can’t even think about that, not with Kara here, now, the way that she is. She my not want to know, but I need her to know, to figure out the  _ why. _ Once we know why Kara’s panic attacks are happening, we can figure out how to keep them from happening. I glance over; Kara’s face is still impassive (does she not know what I’m talking about or is she just ignoring me?). “You know what a trigger is right?”

 

Kara throws up her hands. Her countenance finally changes, but it’s for the worst. Her eyes narrow and her lips curl up the tiniest bit in a gesture of disgust. I feel a sharp pain in my gut; Kara’s disapproval hurts more than a physical blow at this point (oh, how the mighty have fallen). “Of course I know what a trigger is. Do you think I’m stupid?” 

 

I try not to wince when Kara lands on the word  _ stupid. _ Of all the words I thought would hurt, this was one of the least expected ones. It’s just the weight, the pointedness with which she said it struck a chord somewhere deep in my heart that reverberated throughout my whole body. But Kara doesn’t see this. My walls may be down, but my masks have become second nature. I push on.

 

“Dr. Stein thinks it’s your family,” I continue, referring to the triggers (and rather smoothly ignoring the whole  _ stupid _ thing). “He thinks thinking about their death is what causes these attacks.” 

 

“He thinks he knows me so well, huh?” _Well, he is a psychiatrist… and_ _it doesn’t take a doctor to realize that. Her family’s death_ must _have a part in the terrors._ “He doesn’t know shit about me, Lena.” I can’t completely disagree with that; Dr. Stein doesn’t know Kara the way I do. But how could her past not be a trigger for the panic attacks? Kara loved her family with all her heart, and every single one of them died in an explosion. I take a moment to realize just how awful Kara’s situation is compared to mine: I never cared for my father and despise my mother almost as much as she despises me, and both of them are still alive (just rotting away in prison). And I loved Lex, I still love who he was before his downward spiral, but he’s only the shell of _one_ person I love who was taken away from me, and even he isn’t dead. Both of Kara’s parents _and_ her sister died. She could never see them again, even if she wanted to. Why do terrible things happen to good people like her? All of this is just waiting to spill out of my mouth, but I don’t want to directly contradict her; she’s already so on edge.

 

“Kara,” I say, leaning forward, about to reach out to her (I think better of it). “It makes sense. Unless– oh, shit.”  _ What if I have something to do with them? _ As egotistical as it sounds, I think I might have something to do with them. Kara, at least up until her aggressive episode now, wanted to know me, be as close to me as she could. She actively persisted in bothering me (for which I’m now grateful), but once she started interacting with me, she started having the day terrors. And that scares me. Because now,  _ I  _ want to be close to Kara. I hate myself for asking, but it’s a knee-jerk reflex. And I have to know. “Is it me?”

 

I knew this might happen, but I thought (hoped) that maybe, just maybe, Kara’s eyes would soften, she would reach out and comfort me, tell me that I could never hurt her. But I can and I have, and I can see it in her narrowed eyes and clenched jaw and the way she spits out the words, “So this is about you now?”

 

“No, no, no! It’s just–,” I have to defend myself, rationalize why I would ask such a selfish question. But I can’t even give  _ myself _ a reasonable justification. My voice drops and my head hangs. “I mean, you said my name when you…” I can’t even finish my sentence. I sound pathetic even to myself. I brace myself for a scalding response. 

 

Instead, I’m met with silence. It’s only when I glance up that Kara responds. Her voice has lowered an octave and there’s not as much malice in her voice. “Whatever,” she mutters. “It could’ve been anyone's name.” But I’m not sure if she’s trying to convince herself or me. It sure as hell isn’t convincing me. And it’s starting to irritate me, not only that Kara’s so unreasonably aggressive, but that she seems to bent on staying angry, even if she’s denying obvious fact. 

 

“Twice?” I ask incredulously. I roll my eyes. “ _ Couldn’t _ be related, now could it?”

 

Kara narrows her eyes at me. “ _ Must _ have been a coincidence.”

 

I close my eyes in frustration.  _ Breathe, Lena, breathe. She’s not in her right mind, she just experienced a painful reminder of her family, she’s on medications, she can’t truly mean this. _ I take a deep, calming breath, open my eyes.  _ Calm, Lena, be calm, be rational. Tell her the truth. _

 

“You’re deflecting, Kara. I’ll get to the point.” I want to pause so she can prepare herself for the news, but I can’t risk Kara wrestling control of the conversation away from me; I push on, almost spitting out the words. “Dr. Stein says you need therapy.”  _ Brace for impact. _

 

The first thing that changes is Kara’s expression… again. And if I thought it was for the worst earlier,  _ boy _ was I wrong. It’s worse. Then she starts sputtering indignantly, fishing for words and finding none. Finally, she gets out a word. “W-what!” It’s less of a question and more of an incredulous shout. “That’s unbelievable! There’s nothing wrong with me!”

 

It takes almost all I have not to burst into tears. Kara’s denial, be it out of fear or truly believing, has reached critical levels. As perfect as she is, these day terrors haunt her. And they aren’t like a harmless bad habit that can easily be broken. These attacks could be dangerous to her health. They could kill her. But if I fight her, she’ll just fight back harder. And I can’t deal with that at this point. So I move my hand to Kara’s arm and start stroking up and down her bicep, tracing soothing designs across her skin.

 

“I know,” I lie. “I know there’s nothing wrong with you. I’m most likely the problem.”  _ Now  _ that  _ part I believe. _ “But if you go to therapy, you’ll be back to normal.” I know I’m walking on thin ice, but I have to try. 

 

At first, I think I was successful; Kara’s features soften for a moment. I feel her arms relax, feel the tension leave her body as she looks at me with pity in her eyes. “Lena, you’re not the problem…,” she whispers. I feel guilty for playing her, I feel like a Luthor, but the means justify the ends, right?  _ That’s what Lillian always said…. _

 

But then Kara pulls her arm away from my hand. Her face hardens ( _ again _ ). Anger flares up in her eyes. I think I see something else for a split second (fear? regret? hate?), but it’s gone faster than it arrived. Her voice is far too many decibels too loud, but I can’t tell if it’s overcompensation or true ire.

 

“Stop making this about you! It’s not about you, and I’m still very normal, thank you very much!”

 

I stand up from my chair and take a tiny step back. I’m wounded, obviously, that Kara would even think of pushing me away, more so than I’d like to admit.  _ It’s not her fault, _ I repeat in my head.  _ It’s not her fault. _ But then…, “If I’m not the problem, what is?”

 

Kara’s face flushes red. She’s on the verge of yelling, so loud that I glance at the door to make sure that a nurse isn’t drawn by the noise. “There is no problem! I don’t belong here, I want to leave. Now.” Her voice is so forceful by the end that I can’t think for a moment. I just stare at her, shaken for a moment by her vehemence. 

 

“O– okay,” I finally stammer out. “I– I’ll go talk to Meghan and Dr. Stein.” I move slowly towards the door, my heart stuttering, my fingers shaking (I hope she doesn’t notice). 

 

I hear Kara let out a huff of breath. I spare a quick glance back at her, stopping mid-step. I hear a quiet, begrudging “Thank you,” then a slight ruffling of the sheets as she settles into her hospital bed. I close the door to her room slowly and silently. And only then do I allow the floodgates to open. 

 

_ I’m not ready for this, _ I realize as I slump down to the floor next to room 197.  _ I don’t think I can handle this new Kara. _ I suppose I can only hope it gets better. I angrily wipe the silent tears from my eyes and compose myself.  _ Time for the old masks. _ I find my way back to the waiting room where Meghan and Dr. Stein are talking. I wait patiently, listening absently to their conversation. I only truly pay attention once I hear Kara’s name.

 

“Kara can be released back into your care as soon as you think she’s ready,” Dr. Stein says. “I just ask that I am able to come over and provide her with therapy sessions.”

 

Meghan nods, realizes that I’m back, and turns to me. “Lena, how’s Kara feeling?”

 

On one hand, I want to tell Meghan and Dr. Stein the truth, that Kara’s too angry to be at the home (or anywhere near me) at this point. But on the other hand, maybe it’s the hospital that’s making her so irate. So I tell a half-truth (half-lie, whichever one makes me feel better; I haven’t decided yet).

 

“She’s fine,” I say, proud that my voice doesn’t waver. “She doesn’t like visitors though. She said she didn’t want to see anyone.”  _ She didn’t want to see  _ me _. _ “She said she just wanted to be out of here.” At least that much is completely true. I glance at Dr. Stein. “Do the meds normally make people a little… irritated?” 

 

Stein tilts his head a little bit. “I suppose. Why do you ask? Was Kara upset with you?”

 

I shake my head in reply, maybe a bit too quickly. “Not with me,” I respond, searching for a way out. “But she seemed pretty pissed at the nurse. And you.” (Maybe that was a bit too bold….)

 

But Stein seems to buy it; he nods in understanding. “Very well. We’ll sedate her and let her sleep off the drugs back at the foster home.” I internally breathe a sigh of relief. 

 

“Thank you,” Meghan says, shaking Dr. Stein’s hand.

 

“Of course. Ms. Moors, Ms. Luthor.” Not so much as a sneer at my name; I’m impressed. “The ambulance will be waiting to drive you back right out that door.” He gestures to the wide entryway. “Have a good evening.” 

 

I just nod my head, not trusting myself to speak anymore.

 

~~~

 

When we arrive back at the home, Meghan carries a still-asleep Kara up to her room. She hasn’t spoken the entire way back (and neither have I). I don’t even know what I should be feeling anymore. I nevertheless follow Meghan into Kara’s room, watch her carefully lay the blonde angel ( _ my _ blonde angel) on her bed and pull up the sheets. I can’t help but glance (okay, stare) at the wall of drawings. My eyes fall on the one where I am completely broken, where Kara is reaching out to me. I almost break out into tears.  _ Fucking again. _ I can’t decide if the roles in the picture are reversed, amplified, or just non-existent at this point. On one hand, I do feel utterly and completely broken, both from the scare Kara gave me when she almost died and from the words she pelted me with. But Kara must be broken as well, for her to lash out at me like that; she must have been––she must  _ be–– _ so afraid, so hurt, so unsure about her future,  _ our _ future.

 

And let’s be honest, so am I.

 

The things Kara said, I can’t just forget them. As much as I may want to, they are burned in my mind.  _ She couldn’t have meant what she said. She was on medications and she was overwhelmed and she was scared. She  _ couldn’t _ have meant what she said. Right? _ Maybe not entirely, but there must have been  _ some _ parts of those feelings  _ somewhere _ deep within her subconscious that believed the accusations and criticism she so harshly threw into my face. And if, deep down, she really,  _ truly _ thinks I’m a selfish bitch, she very well may be no better than the rest of the world. 

 

I look over at Kara. “Tell me I’m not a Luthor,” I whisper. I know I’ll get no response, but my stomach still sinks, my heart still falls when I hear no answer.

 

A single tear rolls down my cheek. I quickly and angrily wipe it away. My mother’s words ring in my ears.

 

_ You’re supposed to be a Luthor, darling. Luthors don’t cry. _

 

//Kara POV//

 

When I had initially woken, I was in such simple and pure  _ bliss. _ In a temporary moment of ignorance- forgetting all my real problems; the only thing worrying me at the time was the first thing I would say to her. Bleary eyes projecting star-bright white speckles on the spotless hospital ceiling, the steady supply of drugs keeping my stasis in check. 

 

The tingle that remained on the back of my hand, the thought of seeing the one person that could get me through this.

 

The one person who patiently waited at the bedside, for who knows how long, exhaustion and fear and all the burdens of her world etching worry lines into her face.

 

Lena was there, she was right there with me, and after everything that has happened, after everything that I have put her through, the massive changes that have rocked both of our worlds in the short, (too short,) time we have known each other. Her soft thumb rubbing gentle circles into the back of the same hand that her lips graced, her eyes red and puffy and yet so full of adoration and hopefulness, and yet, I  _ could  _ have asked for more.

 

When I arrived at this damned foster home, when my future was condemned to one of misery and never ending pain and these hellish visions and the knowledge that I would never see my family in a good way ever again… When I spent those first nights silently judging Lena Luthor, analyzing her and thinking of her and capturing stolen glances, afraid to look head on because I feared her, not because of who she was, but because of how she was, the glazed over staring at walls, the way her lips were permanently drawn into a thin line, the bags under her eyes betraying her tiredness despite the rigidity she held herself with. 

 

Lena Luthor was doing more than she ever needed to do. She was trying for me. She was trying to change her ways, trying to open up to me, trying to make her feelings be known, all for my sake.

 

And lying in that hospital bed, staring into her soothing eyes, yes, I could have asked for more, so much more.

 

But in that moment, I would have rather not.

 

And then everything came to the light. It all hit me in one huge, overbearing, terrifyingly real, wave, when her gaze hardened, when her posture became slouched, like she was tasked with carrying the weight of everyone’s grief on top of her own. When the words left her mouth, when her soothing hands gripped mine ever so tightly, like she was afraid to let go, like she was afraid to lose me, when I close my eyes now, I see nothing, but I hear a whisper in the wind; the one of someone who’s purely afraid. Her crisp green eyes were concerned, her lips unwilling to utter the words… but when they did... 

 

_ “You could have died.” _

 

Reality waltzed up and slapped me in the face, and everything hit me in one huge, terrifying, wave. I just became  _ so angry.  _ Inexplicably mad. Furious, frustrated, in denial over everything that’s happened. And of course I wasn’t angry at her. I was angry at myself. Ashamed that I was so weak, so scared, in such a bad condition that I made her  _ worry. _ I made her become  _ scared _ for me, afraid, unhappy.

 

_ Her eyes become panicky, dilated pupils search my face, as she leans away from me suddenly, like she’s afraid of hurting me. _

 

_ “Is it me?” Lena’s words are barely audible, and they’re shameful, and her voice is shaky and so are her hands, the same hands that held onto me so strongly just moments before. _

 

And in that moment, I hated myself for that, because honestly, I had never put two and two together prior to this. I had never given it a second thought, how the tremors begin to roll through my body, how the whole room seems to become 10 degrees hotter, how when all of these subtle cues happen, there has been a constant. I just never noticed ( _ refused _ to believe) what,  _ who _ , the constant was. I closed my eyes for a moment, willing my mind to collect all the moments. 

 

She was there for all of them.

 

But I couldn’t just admit that. 

 

_ “So this is about you now?” _

 

I spit the words with so much venom, I didn’t know if it was harder for me to speak the words, or harder for me to deal with the aftermath. The hurt in her eyes, I saw it. I watched as her defenses were thrown back up, reverting back to her cold self, in a matter of seconds, everything that I have worked for since I’ve arrived torn away for a fraction of a moment. It terrified me, how quickly I could ruin this; ruin  _ her _ , if I was careless enough (ruthless enough.) And her eyes softened again after that, she let herself relax. Letting me play the victim, she spoke to me gently, slowly, like she was dealing with a wild animal.

 

_ She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath for about four seconds. She holds it for four more. Releases it over the span of another four (why?) She’s tired of me, I can tell. I’ve been aggressive, headstrong, blunt, and rather idiotic sounding throughout the entire exchange. “You’re deflecting, Kara. I’ll get to the point. Dr. Stein says you need therapy.” _

 

Ah,  _ fuck. _

 

The severity of the situation hit me there. Therapy. Therapy is for people who need help. People who are broken, people who need something to hold on to, people who are  _ messed up. _

 

I’m not one of those people (right?) So I passed out for a few minutes? They have no way of proving the real reason.

 

They have no proof that I’m not normal. 

I’m supposed to be the sunshine, the ray of light cutting through dreary clouds on the rainiest of days, a reason for laughter. I’m supposed to be the twinkle in someone else’s eye, the motivation to keep going.

 

Ever since I was born, I was destined to bring happiness; I was destined  _ for _ happiness.

 

Either I’m messed up, or the Fates don’t know shit.

 

I don’t want to be messed up. I don’t want to be slapped in the face with the label that the word “therapy” brings. I don’t want to be objectified, I don’t want my brain to be meddled, my emotions to be toyed with. Every thought I own to be scrutinized and probed under a microscope.

 

Yeah, I want the flames to cease. I wish I could close my eyes without the ashy shadows of my family haunting the other side. I wish I could live my days without the fear of collapsing on the spot, without knowing what night was to bring. 

 

I wish it would all go away, I wish I could escape it.

 

But tell me, how could anyone assure me that it will get better? How will spending an hour of my time with a white man littered with psychology and psychiatry and psy-what-have-you doctorates, reclined back in his swiveling leather chair, his glasses hanging low on his nose as he taps a pen thoughtfully to his chin, pretending like my case is new, faux enthusiasm and sincerity dripping from his monotone voice as he asks me how I am, as he prys for information from my childhood, as I’m subjected to his feigned sympathy when I retell the story of my current existence; how any of that will make anything, anything at all, better. I’m better off without the help, I know it.

 

But nobody else knows it. Nobody else understands that I can’t just make it go away. 

 

It seems like everyone in the world completely overlooks the fact that your fears never really leave you. 

 

My family; my eternal tormentors...they’ll never be gone.

 

And lying in that hospital bed, looking into her sorrowful eyes, pity burning a hole through my skull, Lena was just like everyone else. She of all people should know that the pain never dulls, but there she stood before me, ever so patiently putting up with me like a mother would with a toddler’s antics, mustering the utter nerve to tell me what I already know. I  _ know _ that it was a severe anxiety attack, I  _ know _ that I need help. I  _ know  _ that I could’ve died.

 

But those are the kinds of words you never want to hear from someone you love. When the person you adore most looks you in the eyes, their own eyes brimmed with tears and pain and absolute fear of what is to come, when it takes every bit of will, all the air from their lungs and all the strength they can muster the words they would never in a million lifetimes want to utter…

 

Whenever my raging thoughts left me for a moment, and the roaring buzz in my ears died to nothing, that’s when the words are free to replay, like a broken record, her hushed voice, eyes the size of baby worlds, and they held all the pain of the world as well when Lena gripped me tighter, when she pulled herself closer, when tears were brimming her eyes, when tears of my own burned in my eyes, threatening to spill onto the clean linen below, and I wasn’t really listening; I couldn’t really bring myself to listen, to the stinging truth of the matter: I need help.

 

I don’t want that help from Lena. I don’t want to put her through that.

 

I don’t want that help from Stein, or John, or Meghan, or someone else who’s only going to pretend to care about my wellbeing.

 

I can only find a real solution from one person, and that one person has to be me. In a sense, it’s my fault. I’m the one who broke Lena, I’m the one who’s making her feel this pain. And I’m terrified. I’m terrified and guilty and panicked and upset and a wild assortment of a thousand different emotions, and the only way I could find it in myself to funnel it, to make it so I didn’t simply implode at the spot was to deny it. And that’s why I have to treat her like this. That’s why I’ve got to put her through this, so she backs off. So she doesn’t get hurt anymore than she has to.

 

_ “There is no problem! I don’t belong here, I want to leave. Now.”  _  My forced anger had driven my words to become bitter, sharp. I was nearly yelling. She flinched at my voice, and withdrew her hand unwillingly, almost cautiously.

 

_ “I– I’ll go talk to Meghan and Dr. Stein.” _ She stood up, and it was obvious how shaken she was, her legs quivering under her weight.  _ What am I doing to her?  _ Guilt ate away at my stomach, the knowledge that my pain is her pain was weighing down on me. I felt sick in the heart. When Lena left the room, I let out a puff of air through my mouth, and settled down into my hospital bed. The crisp sheets rustled below me. I stared at the clock, willing time to pass faster, willing it to go on without me, wishing that I could fast forward through this, wishing that I could sleep forever (forever until things got better.) 

 

When someone opens the door to my room, 7 minutes have passed since Lena had left to retrieve a nurse for me. I sat up, a little too fast probably, because I became dizzy. The nurse’s face was distorted, swirling, speckled with black dots that altered my perception of reality. It certainly wasn’t an experience that I normally experience, and I reach out to my sides, looking for something to grab, something to steady myself on, because then, my view of the world was spinning wildly. My breath became erratic as I desperately grabbed for something, anything to hold on to. The nurse ran to my side, and I grabbed her arm, harder than I probably should of. I didn’t care. I just wanted to feel okay. 

_ “It’s okay Kara, I’m going to give you something to help you calm down, okay?” _ The nurse’s words were as sweet as honey, and her smile was so toothy and big, and her hand held onto my shoulder reassuringly, but I knew what this all meant.

 

_ “I-”  _ I shrugged the nurse off of me, and glared at her,  _ “I want to go home.”  _ The nurse patted my head like I was a dog, and proceeded to adjust the I.V. in my vein. 

 

_ “Don’t you worry dear, everything will be alright.” _

 

I wanted to do something, I wanted to rip the I.V. out, I wanted to get up and run away, run away to anywhere but here. But I couldn’t will my body to move. My head drooped to my chest, and even when I felt the urge to empty my stomach contents, I was helpless to do anything about it.

 

The nurse held my convulsing body and my hair simultaneously as I threw up on my own lap, hushing me, telling me that it would be over soon, telling me that I’d be okay.

 

When my body gave me a moment’s rest, I willed myself to lift my head. My drooping eyes caught sight of the clock. 16 minutes since Lena had left the room. I sluggishly swiveled my head to the left, towards a window that gave sight to the world outside. A world unknowing of my struggles, one that carried on while I laid in this bed, puking on myself like a helpless infant, and I could not help but to think that in this moment, I was doing nothing for the world, and the world was doing nothing for me, and if that’s how my life were to work for the rest of time…

 

Then the world would go on just fine without me.

 

I shook my head lazily, reprimanding myself in my whirring mind.  _ You gotta be the Sunshine, Kara.  _

 

I heaved one final time, failing to actually hurl anything up. My stomach contents were emptied on the bed before me, and the sick feeling was gone, along with my independence and dignity. I felt myself grow steadily more and more drowsy, and the nurse’s soothing words were become warbled in my head. As I felt my neck give out, and my head descended slowly, I caught sight of the door. Peering at me, eyes guilt laden and her body looking as small as ever, was Lena. Rage bubbled inside of me and died as quickly as it occurred. My eyes closed one last time, and I tried to force my anger and fear to subside.

 

After all, it only came down to this because we both care (about each other (probably too much for either of our wellbeing.))


End file.
